


He Only Likes You (for your brains)

by Revenant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), iZombie (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Canon-Typical Violence, Deputy Derek Hale, Light Angst, M/M, ME Isaac Lahey, ME Stiles Stilinski, Mild Gore, Morgue setting, Non-Human Stiles, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Slow Build, Veterinarian Scott, Werewolf Derek, mentions of brain eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5844322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Revenant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had a fifteen year plan for his future that included getting married to the love of his life and becoming a kick-ass doctor. Being turned into a zombie was not a part of the plan, mostly because zombies weren't supposed to be a real thing. The new fifteen year plan basically involves continuing to work at the morgue so he doesn't starve, and continuing to be a zombie, at least until Isaac develops a cure. It doesn't involve falling for werewolf deputy Derek Hale, recent transfer to Beacon County Sheriff's Department, or pretending to be a psychic (because that sounds better than 'zombie). Stiles maybe isn't so good with this whole 'life plan' thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is Stiles' life before he died...

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** This is a fusion between Teen Wolf and the show iZombie, and it was really hard to figure out what needed to be tagged, so if I've left something out let me know. There are brief (so brief) glimpses of a f/f relationship, and background f/m (no depicted sex) in case that's not your cuppa, it is not tagged because they are not at all the focus of this story. For anyone concerned regarding the Jordan/Stiles pairing, it appears briefly in the prologue but they are not together for the rest of the story, though they are friends.
> 
>   
> [8Tracks OST](http://8tracks.com/revenant-scribe/he-only-likes-you-for-your-brains-soundtrack)

Stiles distinctly remembered setting his alarm clock to play 'Eye of the Tiger' at precisely six o'clock in the morning, but that wasn’t what woke him. 

"Mm," he groaned, tugging the blankets up to cover his face as something nuzzled along the back of his neck. He swatted at the thing half-heartedly. "Five more minutes."

There's a soft puff of warm air along the skin of his shoulder and the sound of someone quietly snickering. 

"Wake up," Jordan said, and the gentle nuzzling turned into warm lips pressing into that tender place behind Stiles' ear, which was very distracting.

"No alarm," Stiles argued, semi-coherently. "Still sleep."

"I turned it off."

"Fucker," Stiles grumbled, though he shifted in his position, making more of his neck available for Jordan's ministrations. "That's my theme song. It was going to dictate the tone of my entire day."

Jordan snickered again and pointed out, wryly, "You throw your pillow at it before you reach the chorus. I'm trying something new. Is it working?"

"Mm." Stiles tipped his head back as Jordan's tongue crossed from his shoulder blade up the length of his neck to end with a sucking kiss just under his jaw. "You're evil."

"The evilest," Jordan agreed.

Wriggling, Stiles turned to face the other man, their bodies slotting together, sleep-warm and easy. It was, in Stiles' opinion, the best possible way to wake up at six o'clock in the morning. Possibly the best way to wake up at any time. Careless of the smell of their breath, used to it after such a long time together, they shared a lingering kiss. Stiles' arms settled heavy and only marginally coordinated along Jordan's shoulder, keeping the man pinned close. "God, you're hot," he said with a grin. "Good morning."

"You're not so bad yourself." Jordan leaned down for another kiss, a short peck that Stiles managed to turn into something wet and promising. That was his specialty.

After a moment, Jordan pulled back, just enough to form words. "Stiles. You're going to be late."

"M'kay," Stiles said, mostly distracted with the feel of Jordan under his hands, his lips.

"Wait, Stiles." Jordan's hand dropped down onto Stiles' head, the pressure and the curl of fingers caught somewhere between holding him close and tugging him back. "It's seven." And then again, a moment later, "It's seven o'clock, Stiles. If I'm late for work again this week your dad is going to kill me."

"Holy god, don't do that!" Stiles whined, jerking back like he'd been singed. "Why are you talking about my dad when I'm trying to initiate some hanky-panky? Jesus!"

"Sorry." Although Jordan didn't look sorry at all.

"Jerk," Stiles muttered. "No blowjob for you."

"We don't have time anyway, that's what I've been trying to tell you."

Grumbling, Stiles hauled himself out of bed. "I set the alarm for six _specifically_ so we could have sexy times."

"I know. That's why I turned it off. The last time we had sex before I went into work, I had to sit through the most awkward morning briefing. Stiles, your dad _knew_."

Stiles gaped. "You're seriously letting my _dad_ cockblock me?"

"The way he _looked_ at me... Stiles, you have no idea!" 

"Please," Stiles scoffed. "I know _exactly_ how he looked at you, he'd look at me the same way every time I jerked off before dinner. It's no excuse." He stumbled off in the general direction of the bathroom, leaving Jordan to collect his uniform from the floor.

Sometimes Stiles had trouble believing that this was his actual life. True, this had been the plan since he was eleven years old and had decided that he was going to become a doctor, but he'd figured that love and marriage would be something that would come along later, _after_ his residency was finished, maybe. Not that everything would slot so easily into place. Stiles was pretty sure that Jordan was _'the one'_. Which was probably a good thing, considering they were getting married in three months.

Still, despite his deep love of making plans Stiles so rarely saw those plans translate into reality. Plus, it had been pretty rough for a while. Stiles's awkward childhood had translated into a semi-mortifying adolescence. His brief plan to lessen the burden of his med school debt by achieving a sports scholarship was dashed when he was benched for the entire duration of his time on the high school lacrosse team. Save for that one memorable game where he received an award for MVP simply for managing to not fall on his face even once (which had surprised everyone, including himself), and that everyone (with the exception of his dad) pretty much immediately forgot ever happened. 

Still, he made it. Somehow. This was it. The culmination of his brilliant eleven year old self's careful strategizing and it was, in short, pretty much perfect.

"Hey dude," Scott greeted, when Stiles dragged himself out of the bedroom, still in the process of pulling on his clothes. 

"Is that coffee?" Stiles reached out, fingers flexing as he strained for the cup.

"Get away, this is my coffee," Scott grumbled, jerking the mug out of reach with one hand while the other pressed, palm-flat against Stiles' forehead to keep him at bay. "There's a whole pot over there."

"I love you," Stiles repeated, this time to the coffee pot. "Mm, get inside ma belly."

"You're so embarrassing," Scott said, sipping his coffee. "Did Jordan stay over last night?"

Stiles grunted, more interested in consuming the contents of the coffee pot while simultaneously smearing peanut butter onto a piece of toast than answering such an obvious question. 

"I don't know why he doesn't just move in, dude. I wouldn't mind. Honest."

"We're saving ourselves for marriage," Stiles said around a mouthful of bread and peanut butter.

"When he's not over here, you're over at his place. I'm just saying, why bother waiting three more months. You guys are perfect together."

"Nonsense." Jordan chose that moment to come out of the bedroom, in the process of his fastening his belt around his hips. Stiles raised his voice purposely and entirely unnecessarily as he continues, "A perfect boyfriend would have made breakfast instead of leaving me to survive till lunchtime on bread and peanut butter."

Jordan smirked. "Well I was going to say we could swing by Mabel's, pick-up one of those breakfast sandwiches you like, but if you prefer peanut butter …"

Stiles chucked the slice of bread into the garbage, already hallway to the door. "Bye Scott!" 

"You guys are ridiculous," Scott muttered.

"Have fun chopping the balls off of puppies all day!" Stiles hollered, shutting the door behind him.

"That's not all I do!" Scott retorted, just like he always did. The words so familiar by now that Stiles could fill in the words that were muffled through the closed door.

"Hey," Stiles noted idly between bites of his breakfast sandwich. "Now instead of an awkward morning briefing with my dad thinking about all the naughty, awesome things we got up to, you can think about how you endangered the life of his only son because you're a prude and turned off the alarm to cheat me out of morning sex."

Jordan, who had been sneaking bites of his own breakfast sandwich during a red light, looked guilty. "Promise me you won't tell him."

"I don't have to," Stiles shrugged. "Your guilty conscience will do all the work for me."

Playing along, Jordan looked immediately chagrinned, hunching in on himself and sighing dramatically. "He'd kill me for endangering your life like this. It's shameful. I'm a horrible person."

Stiles finished his sandwich just as Jordan pulled up to the curb in front of the hospital. He crumbled up his wrapper, stuffing it into the paper bag before he leaned over to give Jordan a kiss. "Have fun enforcing the law. We have to have extra sex tonight to make up for this morning."

"Mm," Jordan said. "That sounds horrible. I certainly won't be looking forward to that at all."

A second later, Jordan pushed him gently pack with a palm to the chest. "I know what you're up to. You're trying to send me to work with a hard on."

"It'd serve you right."

Laughing, Jordan nudged him back further and Stiles grabbed his bag, reaching for the car door. "Have fun saving lives," Jordan called, and Stiles waved and jogged into the hospital with a shit-eating grin on his face.

……………………………………………………………

When he gets a break mid-afternoon Stiles calls Scott because they've known each other forever and Jordan and Kira both like to joke that Scott and Stiles sometimes forget who they're actually dating. But since Scott is in with a patient (probably removing said patient's puppy balls), he immediately calls Jordan, who answers on the second ring.

"Hey, so you'll never guess what happened," Stiles started.

"Something good?"

"Something weird," Stiles corrected, and then launched into an account of how a teen had been brought in by the EMTs having collapsed playing basketball. He'd been cyanotic and the chief resident was MIA. Malia, another resident, had wanted to wait but Stiles had known that they couldn't afford to, had made the call and gone ahead and saved the kid's life. "And then Malia sat with me during lunch break and asked if I wanted to go with her to a boat party after work."

"Wait wait," Jordan said. "That's a lot for me to take in. So, you saved a kid's life and … Are we talking about your arch nemesis, Malia? The one you're convinced is trying to kill you?"

"She growls at me _all the time_ ," Stiles muttered. "But yeah. How many other 'Malia's' do you know?"

"Wow. So she's embracing your overall perfection rather than trying to destroy you? Well played, Malia the rival."

"Oh, my god. You're so embarrassing. Shut up." He rubbed a hand over his face because he's convinced he's turning red. 

"Maybe you should go." 

"What? No way. We have plans tonight. Sexy plans. Those are literally my favorite kind of plans."

Jordan laughed. "Stiles, in three months we're going to be married. You'll be stuck with me for the rest of your life. Go out and have fun. Get a little crazy. Let loose. What's the worst that could happen?"

Famous last words.

……………………………………………………………

The worst that could happen involved a lot of chaos and screaming, and also fire. Stiles doesn't really know how the evening progressed to this point, he's not even a little bit tipsy but apparently he missed the part of the party that involved people losing their freaking minds.

Everything had seemed so normal, too. He'd felt a little awkward and out-of-place, the way Stiles usually felt at parties when not accompanied by Scott. The majority of the people on the boat were total strangers, there was Malia and a few other people he knew from the hospital, but they were sitting in clumps, one group crammed into the hot tub together, the other taking-up the curved seating on the bow. He'd said 'hi' but there had been no room for him in either group, literally, and he'd felt so awkward looming over them. 

Boat parties were new to him and he hadn't realized that he could bring a swimsuit and chill in the hot tub. He also hadn't realized there'd be drugs present, which was maybe a little naïve of him. Stiles can't help thinking about the frown on his dad's face if he could see what Stiles was seeing right now. So many drugs.

As a sheriff's kid Stiles knew better than to drink too much when he had to get home on his own, and he wasn't into drugs, but it wasn't the first party he'd been to where they'd been present. No big. It wasn't like the party was out of control. 

Until suddenly, it was. 

So far out of control that Stiles can't really process it at all. 

He's hunkered down under the refreshment table, fingers fumbling as he sends an emergency mass text to his dad and Jordan and Scott. Someone staggers and falls, a man, his arm reaching out, almost touching Stiles' knee. There's blood on the man's hand, his eyes are wide open and vacant and Stiles tries not to look at him, shifts away cautiously further under the table.

The smell of smoke and fire overrides the scent of the cool night air and open water. The top deck of the ship is burning, Stiles watches as the flames creep up the mast. After a moment there's a low, deep groan and a sharp crack as the mast fractures, wood splitting and sending the whole thing into the water. The people that were clinging to it drop like skittles as it falls, hit the water with a screech and a splash. He can't stay here. The ship is going to sink eventually.

Everywhere he looks there's chaos. People are running, crouching, sobbing, bleeding. There's other people out there, red-eyed and pale as death. They stagger about, grunting and groaning, their jaws clicking; they crouch over the bodies with their teeth bared, lips smeared with blood.

Stiles has to get off this boat.

For a split second everything seems to align. There's a break in the pandemonium, time slowing as a path clears on the deck. If he doesn't go now. Right now. Then he might never get another chance, he'll die on this boat and that is unacceptable. Stiles has no intention of dying today.

He breaks cover, scrambling out from beneath the table and sprinting as fast as he can, heading toward the side of the boat: all he needs to do is throw himself over the rail, once he hits the water he'll be home free. He'll be safe. Stiles can tread water for hours, and that's what he'll do. He'll tread water until the police come, until his dad gets here, until Jordan shows up and fishes him out and wraps him in a blanket. 

He'll tread water as long as he needs to, just so long as he gets away from this murder boat. 

Barely three steps from the railing and a hand closes over Stiles' arm, a vice-grip that drags him to a stand still. Stiles doesn't give himself time to panic, or maybe he's already so deep into panic that there's no room for anything else. Just his terror and his mission: get to the rail of the boat, jump off, tread water. 

Instinctively Stiles yanks on the stranger's arm, trying to pry himself loose. The man stares at him, the whites of his eyes turned blood red and irises dark as the night sky. Stiles knows about werewolves, has seen werewolves before. But that isn't this.

That isn't anything like _this_.

Whatever this guy is, he's not something from the Official Supernatural Registry.

The guy grins, wide and menacing and Stiles kicks out as hard as he can sending the stranger staggering back. "Fuck," Stiles hisses as the man's nail drags down the skin of Stiles' arm. It stings, but he doesn't let himself dwell because he's free. Stiles takes a step and hurls himself over the railing of the boat, curling into himself, clutching his arm to his chest as he falls towards the water. Home free. Home fucking free.

He hits the water and blacks out.

When he opens his eyes again it feels like he's suffocating. He's soaking wet and the world is a shadowy yellow and the air tastes recycled. He's choking. Groggy, struggling to breathe, Stiles reaches out, his fingers bumping against something. 

Rubber. He's encased in rubber. 

A dark line splits the yellow-rubber world in two. A zipper. Stiles presses his fingers against it, desperate to breathe. The bag splits open.

Stiles sits up, the air freezing against his damp skin and he chokes, spits up lungfuls of lake water. "Gross," he mutters. "That tastes nasty." His voice is a weak rasp. He glances around. He's on a beach. Police and EMTs are swarming everywhere, shouting at each other and into walkie-talkies. There are rows upon rows of yellow rubber bags laid out on the sand.

Body bags.

And Stiles is sitting in one of them. 

"Oh my god!" someone cries. Stiles looks, meets the wide-eyes of an EMT who's staring, mouth open, face pale like he's just seen a ghost. He's looking right at Stiles "Oh my god," the man says again, and then turns and runs away.

"Rude," Stiles murmurs to himself. He feels fine. He's hungry as hell but for all that he just spit up water and was apparently mistaken for a corpse he actually feels pretty normal.

The more he sits though, the more intense the hunger gets. It's all he can think about. 

When did last eat? How long has it been since the boat party? They had shitty hor d'oeuvres for the most part but Stiles had helped himself to a lot of the mini quiches because he's a lightweight and Jordan always looks so fondly exasperated when Stiles staggers home drunk and uncoordinated, but Stiles had plans. Sexy plans. He hadn't wanted to be too drunk to make good on those.

No one is paying any attention to him. There's a group of deputies who are fishing more bodies out of the water. Further out, Stiles can see more deputies scrambling around the wreckage of the boat. Apparently it didn't sink after all. Maybe Stiles should have stayed put. Even more deputies are standing around up on the road in tight-packed groups, talking in hushed voices. There's no sign of the Sheriff's car or of his dad. No sign of Jordan. 

Stiles tries to wave someone down but he's so hungry and he's surrounded by body bags and he needs to call his dad. He needs to call Jordan and Scott. They're probably all worried sick. He pulls himself to his feet and then staggers. His body is stiff and uncoordinated, it's actually difficult to think straight let alone walk. He's starving. Stiles has never been so hungry in his life.

Stumbling along the beach he loses track of where he's going or why. He walks because he's already walking. He'll stop when he finds what he's looking for.

What is he looking for? He doesn't even know.

There's a body lying half in the water. A woman, pearls around her neck, she's wearing a sparkly tank-top, lying face down, arms stretched up across the sand like she was trying to crawl. She's dead. Her eyes are open but sightless, her hair falling out of what might have once been an elaborate up-do, the loose hair covers the part of her skull that's missing. 

Stiles stops walking. 

He's so hungry. 

On clumsy feet he staggers down to the edge of the water, crouches. Breathes in deep. He whispers, " _Brains_."


	2. This is Stiles' life now...

**One Year (and 28 days) later…**

The alarm clock wakes him at seven in the morning with Imagine Dragons, 'Hopeless Opus.' Stiles leaves the song playing as he drags himself out from under his blankets and gets dressed. He brushes his teeth, avoiding his reflection in the bathroom mirror and staggers out to the kitchen where he can smell breakfast.

Scott turns around from where he's making bacon and eggs, his smile morphing into a wince the moment he gets a good look at Stiles. "Oh dude, did you even brush your hair?"

"Whatever," Stiles grumbles, smoothing his hair into place with a hand, it feels a little greasy under his fingers. When did he shower last? Collapsing onto a stool at the breakfast bar Stiles sniffs himself and ultimately decides he's passable.

"Also you've got roots showing," Scott tells him, and then slides a mug of coffee across the counter.

Stiles grabs the chili pepper, shakes it out into the coffee and takes a long gulp. "How bad?" he asks after a moment, tilting his head to allow Scott a closer inspection.

"Not too bad," Scott says with a shrug, turning back to the frying pan.

"I can touch it up before I go to work."

"Isaac doesn't care about your hair, dude."

Stiles glares. " _I_ care. I'm not one of those people who can pull off weird hair. You _know_ that."

Scott turns around again, looks him right in the eye and promises, "It's not that noticeable, buddy. Honest."

Stiles holds his friend's gaze for a little longer and then finishes off his coffee. "I think I'm out of dye, anyway. I'll pick some up after work." He walks his empty mug to the sink, gives it a quick rinse as Scott settles down with his plate of scrambled eggs, toast and bacon. "Are we out of anything else?"

"Milk," Scott tells him around his mouthful. 

"Is that it?" Scott shrugs his response to the question, and Stiles pats his friend's back as he walks to the couch to collect his bag. "Text me if you think of something else. See ya later."

…………………………………………………….

The Beacon County Morgue is on the bottom floor of a corner building that also houses the CSI lab, a collection of doctor's offices and, on the top floor, several ambulance chaser law offices. The morgue is accessible either by a narrow, blue-tiled stairwell with dim florescent lights that flicker periodically, which Stiles suspects is caused by angry spirits; or alternately, by a cramped elevator with metal doors the squeal as they slide closed and sometimes gets stuck between floors. Stiles chooses which one to used based on whether he would prefer to be mugged by an angry ghost or die alone in a claustrophobic elevator that perpetually smells of cigars despite that the fact that the entire building has been non-smoking for over two decades.

The actual morgue, however, is spacious and clean, and the lab is kitted out with all the modern necessities. That morning when Stiles jogs down the three steps that separate the hall entrance from the morgue the proper, there's already a body lying out on the slab, which Stiles chooses to interpret as a sign that the day will be satisfyingly busy.

"Hey," Isaac greets, budging his goggles onto his forehead with the back of his gloved wrist. "I'm initiating Phase Two of my plan to make you less pathetic."

"I'm not pathetic," Stiles calls as he heads into the locker room. "What was phase one?" 

"Hiring you!" 

Snorting, Stiles finishes entering his combination and begins shoving his things inside. "It's only been a year, Isaac," he says, shrugging his lab coat on and heading towards the box of plastic gloves. "That's a pretty normal amount of time."

"It's been more than a year," Isaac corrects. "And I've been very patient and supportive. And now I've arranged a date for you, because I'm a good friend. Friday night. Eight o'clock at that weird Diner you like. Her name's Agatha, and I'm pretty sure she's part Nereid. You're gonna love her." He meets Stiles eyes over the cadaver lying on the slab and stares. "You can thank me any time."

Instead, Stiles shifts his own goggles into place and says, "Can't Friday night. I'm busy."

"Busy being anti-social."

"Dude, I heard that. Also, don't try to fix me up while you have your hands in a dead person, okay? That's not cool."

"But then, when will I fix you up?" 

"Exactly," Stiles says, then jerks his head at the woman on the table. "What have we got?"

Sighing, Isaac steps back from the table, rolling the rubber gloves off his wrist. "Just finished the post mortem," he says, as he tosses the gloves in the hazardous waste bin and drops his goggles onto the desk. "She's a Jane Doe, found out in the Preserve early this morning," Isaac says, settling into the rolling desk chair by the computer.

"How long was she there?" Stiles asks. 

"My guess would be around six hours at most. I pulled five bullets out of her, aconite laced, at least three different strains of it, so whoever killed her meant business."

"A werewolf?"

"Yep," Isaac confirms. "COD's good old fashioned aconite poisoning."

The Jane Doe on the table has her eyes closed, blond hair pulled back so as not to interfere with the autopsy. She looks peaceful. "She's been cut in half," Stiles points out.

"Oh shit," Isaac says, voice heavy with sarcasm. "I hadn't noticed!" Stiles glares and after a second Isaac lets it go. "It was done post-mortem so, lucky for her? I guess?" 

"And the bullets?"

Shrugging, the ME admits, "I haven't finished running the tests yet. It's been a long day."

"It's not even nine o'clock yet," Stiles points out, stopping at the edge of the table.

Stiles gets to work while Isaac begins writing his report. It used to be that Stiles' days were spent at the hospital, constantly surrounded by people and noise, constantly occupied, rushing around. The morgue is always quiet and pleasantly cool and strangely peaceful. There's never many people around, live people anyway, and while there's still pressure, still a lot of care needed for this work, it's different.

"You look like shit, by the way," Isaac comments, helpfully a while later, just as Stiles is tugging the sheet up over the Jane Doe. "You know I hate butting into your personal life but—"

"Says the dude who just took it upon himself to set me up on a date," he pauses, considering. "And who regularly asks me for my urine samples."

"So I can _find a cure_ , Stiles, don't cheapen it." Isaac narrows his eyes, inspecting Stiles closely. "Have you had coffee yet? You know I have a rule about this, you are officially not allowed to talk until you've had at least one cup of coffee."

"I had coffee. Where do you need her, by the way?"

"There is fine," Isaac says. "The deputy working the case will probably swing by soon. Also, stop trying to distract me."

Stiles shrugs. 

"God, you're so moody, it's gross." He gets a sly look on his face. "You know what might cheer you up? Getting laid. Agatha is pretty open-minded, I bet she won't even care that you're a…"

"Ha ha," Stiles says sarcastically. "I am too hungry right now to work out if you're joking or not. Your head just turned into a giant dancing ham."

"Don't objectify me. That's inappropriate work-place behavior!" Isaac snaps his fingers. "But now that you mention it, I was actually going to suggest breakfast anyway!" 

When Isaac snatches up the Stryker saw, Stiles grimaces. "What are you doing?"

Isaac glances between Stiles and the Jane Doe on the table. "Breakfast?"

"How about 'no'! You said COD was aconite poisoning. I'm not eating poison brain, Isaac!"

"But it's for science!" 

"The last time you told me to 'eat a brain for science' you'd taken it out of a body that had been left decomposing for over three days. The brain had already liquefied. It was disgusting."

"Yes," Isaac agrees. "And from that we learned that liquid brains work just as well. See? Science!"

"I'm not doing it."

"But, _science_!"

"Stop saying 'science', it's not a valid reason!"

Months ago, when Stiles had been new to the ME's office, and new to a lot of other things as well, he'd made a personal vow to never tell anyone what he had become. While the world had adjusted to the wide variety of supernatural beings there was no bestiary anywhere, from any country, that had a word for Stiles. The only terms that fit were to be found in fiction books and folk tales, because zombies weren't an actual thing. 

Except that now, apparently they are.

The plan had been to keep it secret, but that plan had fallen through one afternoon at the morgue when Stiles had been on breaking, watching an episode of _The Walking Dead_ and eating his lunch. The lights had been abruptly switched on and Isaac had pointed and shouted, "I fucking _knew_ it!" because apparently he'd been working the night of the infamous Boat Party Massacre, and unlike the other MEs who had concluded that the missing brain tissue was likely the result of aquatic predators Isaac had formulated a different theory. One that was confirmed when he caught Stiles eating a brain and cheese sandwich in the break room that day.

They hadn't been friends until that moment, when Isaac failed to live up to any of Stiles' fears. When he'd responded to his discovery with enthusiasm and fascination, but no disgust or fear. Not even a hint of it.

"Take a nibble," Isaac continues. "Maybe we'll be able to ID her."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Run her prints, you lazy asshole." 

"I already tried that! Nothing came up."

"Dental records, then." Stiles picks up the tray of tools from the finished autopsy, carrying them over to the sink to begin the sterilization process.

There's a brief span of silence, broken by a heavy sigh and Isaac's voice, "I just feel so bad for her, you know? She was _murdered_. She died alone, probably scared, and whoever did it just dumped her in the woods for someone to find."

"Murder is horrible," Stiles agrees. "That's not a revelation."

"They don't know where she was killed," Isaac continues blithely, "or who did it. They haven't recovered the murder weapon, there's no leads."

"She came in _this morning_. What do you expect?"

"We don't even know her name! No one filed a missing person's report that matches her description. We don't know where she was murdered. They've got some rooky deputy working the case; probably no one's even going to find her killer. And then she's going to be cremated and poured into a box and she'll join the nameless ranks of unclaimed people on the morgue shelves."

"Fuck," Stiles hisses, bracing his hands on the edge of the sink. "Every goddamn time. I hate you so much." 

"Yes!" Isaac cheers. "Give me two minutes." 

Stiles squeezes his eyes closed, hastily finishing up with the tools as behind him the Stryker saw whirs into life. The moment he's finished, Stiles rips the gloves from his hand and heads into the break room, refusing to even glance in Isaac's direction. 

It's a small consolation, but at least brains don't have much flavor. This probably has less to do with the taste of human brain and more to do with the fact that since he's become a zombie Stiles hasn't been able to taste much of anything unless it rates at least six chili peppers beside it on a menu. Not that brains are on menus or anything. The downside of keeping zombiesm secret is that the public hasn't had the opportunity to embrace the idea enough to start turning a profit over it.

The plus side is, of course, that the public has not succumbed to mass hysteria at the prospect of zombies roaming the streets. Werewolves and vampires and fairies and all that are one thing, but Stiles suspects zombies are where the line will be drawn. 

No one was excited to learn that Wendigos were a thing, why should zombies be any different?

Brains, without any seasoning or garnish, pretty much taste like chicken and so long as he doesn't think about what he's eating it's not that bad. True, not thinking about it is a lot harder than it sounds, but Stiles comes up with creative ways to mix the requisite ingredient into food he would have eaten when he was human. It helps.

Today it's a package of Bowl of Noodle Soup hot and spicy with a liberal dosing of Tabasco and a half-pound of Jane Doe's frontal lobe. Isaac joins him on their saggy blue tweed sofa, side-eying Stiles as he wrangles a mouthful of noodles.

"I can't believe we've reached that point in our relationship where I now consider the amount of spice you put on your food weirder than the amount of brains you eat."

"Mm," Stiles grunts as he swallows. He flutters his eyelashes flirtatiously as he says, "I can't believe it only took you eleven months to admit we have a relationship." Isaac rolls his eyes and smacks him as Stiles cackles. "There's nothing weird about liking spice."

"Uh, no. You don't _like_ spice. Dumping five tablespoons of Tabasco into a bowl of already spicy soup goes beyond just 'liking'." 

Stiles pokes his chopsticks at Isaac, threateningly and received a smack on the arm for his efforts. Naturally this deteriorates into a slap-fight, with Stiles batting his boss away with one hand while he tries to eat his lunch with the other.

They're sitting there, giggling and swatting at each other when someone asks, "Is this a bad time?" 

Stiles turns around to find a stranger standing in the door of the break room. He's wearing a neatly pressed deputy's uniform, his facial hair is neatly trimmed, he's gorgeous and Stiles has _never seen him before_ , which sets off all kinds of alarm bells.

"You're not a deputy," Stiles accuses.

The stranger's eyebrows jerk upwards and his lips pinch. "I just recently transferred," the man grumbles quietly, like it's a sore point or something.

Embarrassingly, it's not until that moment that Stiles realizes he's sitting on a hideous tweed couch, feet propped on a coffee table with noodles (and possibly also brain) hanging out of his mouth. He swallows thickly, almost chokes, but his suspicions are not quelled. "I haven't heard about any transfers."

Now the stranger smirks. "Does the Sheriff's Department always runs its decisions by you?"

Stiles jerks his chin up. "Kind of, yeah."

The man's eyebrow climb a little higher, but he dismisses Stiles entirely, turning his attention instead to Isaac. "I'm here about the Jane Doe."

"Yeah. I just finished up." Isaac pops up from the couch. "Right this way."

The deputy shifts to the side, allowing Isaac to pass but doesn't immediately follow. "I've been with the department for almost three weeks now," he offers, his voice soft. "Deputy Derek Hale."

Stiles should really introduce himself, or do something, anything, other than sit there with his noodles staring like an idiot. But his brain derails at the fact that apparently it's been three weeks since Stiles swung by the station to make certain his dad isn't sneaking contraband donuts into his diet again.

By the time he's done processing his shock, Deputy Hale has disappeared from the doorway, and Stiles takes a moment to feel epically shitty for being a bad son, and also for being rude and making such a poor first impression. Bowl of ramen in hand, he wanders out into the lab to find Isaac finishing up a run-down on his findings, which are really not all that much.

"The COD wasn't exactly what I came down here for," Hale is saying. "The scent of wolfsbane was all over the scene. I was interested in whether you'd managed to ID her."

"Ah," Isaac looks sheepish. "Well, I ran her prints but didn't get anything back. I'll check dental records next."

Stiles takes another mouthful of noodles as Hale nods, clearly frustrated. "Let me know as soon as you get something. There hasn't been much to go on with this case. At this point, I'll take anything."

"That sounds a little desperate," Isaac says with a mean little smile. It's one of the things that Stiles secretly enjoys about his boss; Isaac may look wide-eyed and cherubic but he's sarcastic as hell and can, at the drop of a hat, turn into a mean bastard. There's something in the mischievous twist of his lips, though, that makes Stiles think that maybe this isn't the first time that Isaac has encountered Hale. 

This suspicion is confirmed when Isaac follows-up his comment by saying, "Are you sure you're not too proud, Hale?" with an easy warmth to his tone and a smirking grin.

Hale either doesn't understand teasing, or he genuinely has something wedged up his backside, because his expression doesn't shift, and his tone is flat and all too honest when he says, "I just transferred here. It doesn't matter what my record was back in New York, I'm a rookie all over again. When I'm not behind a desk I've been sent out for noise complaints and traffic detail, or running errands. No. I'm not too proud. Anything that helps me solve this, and prove myself to the department. Anything that will help me bring the person or people responsible to justice."

"Wow, what a buzz kill," Isaac retorts. "But it was one hell of a speech. I'm impressed."

Stiles has his mouth open, ready to inquire if part of Hale's 'errands' have included picking up donuts for the Sheriff, and whether or not any of the other deputies have informed him of the policies regarding what Sheriff Stilinski is and is not permitted to eat, but before he can get a word out his vision tunnels, blackness swallowing up the lab and Isaac and Hale, their voices distorting, blending together and warping. 

Stiles isn't even sure if he's still standing up, there's a disorienting disconnect between himself and his body. The sensation isn't entirely unfamiliar but Stiles doesn't think there's any getting used to it. Scott calls it his zombie superpower; Scott only thinks that because he is chronically looking on the Brightside and also has never experienced this particular curse first-hand.

Logically, Stiles knows that he is still in lab, gripping his ramen noodles like an idiot, but that world has no relevance any longer. Instead, there is an indistinct blur of sound: panicked shouts and cruel laughter and, distantly, the sound of metal slamming on metal. He's looking up at a dropped ceiling and when he turns his head there are legs and feet and a myriad of young, sneering faces gathered around him. There's a wash of panic and wash that floods him, a complete loss of his limbs, which are not, of course, his limbs at all. Distantly he realizes that he is flopping and jolting against hard, cold linoleum. A seizure, he realizes, helpless.

Stiles turns away from the people watching and there are lockers on either side of a mural depicting a lion mid-stride, backed by two fierce looking lionesses. The text framing the image reads 'Mountain Pointe Pride'. Someone's tacked a piece of paper to the wall beside the logo, President Obama's face barely discernible in the photocopied image. The capslocked text that runs beneath excitedly proclaims the election of the first black president. In blue ballpoint pen someone has added a note: "Go America!" Someone else has added a picture of a penis.

"Fuck," Stiles gasps. When he opens his eyes he sees the lab, his cup of noodles still clasped in his shaking hand, standing by the table where Jane Doe is lying. Isaac and deputy Hale are still bantering when Stiles cuts them off, "High school," he says, and then takes a steadying breath. "She was at Mountain Pointe Pride in 2008."

Both men turn to stare at him, and it occurs somewhat belatedly to Stiles that this was problem a weird thing to suddenly blurt out. 

"Did you know her?" Hale asks.

Stiles scratches his cheek. "Uh. No, but that's when Obama was elected." Hale continues to stare. "I didn't know her." This is weird. He's being weird. He's doing his zombie-thing and maybe this had been the whole point of eating the Jane Doe's brain in the first place, to figure out who she was, but it's different when it's just Isaac. Isaac knows, they've talked about it, and he's run an uncomfortable number of tests on Stiles. He _gets it_.

Deputy Hale is a complete stranger.

A stranger who doesn't look at all impressed by Stiles' little performance.

"Sorry." Stiles rolls his shoulders back, trying to shake off the memory of having a seizure in the middle of a high school hallway. "Ignore me, it's probably just something I ate," he gives a pointed look at Isaac, hoping to convey that they need to send Hale on his way so they can check into this lead.

Conveying messages to Isaac through significant looks is like playing a game of broken telephone. They haven't got it down to a science the way Stiles and Scott have. Which means that the moment Isaac catches Stiles' look he perks up and scampers over to the computer, fingers tumbling across the keyboard before he's even settled onto the rolling chair.

"What are you doing?" Stiles asks, even though it's plainly obvious what the blond is doing.

"I'm looking up Mountain Pointe Pride." A moment later, Isaac adds, "Now I'm looking up the yearbook photos for 2008."

Hale shifts his attention from Stiles to the computer, leaning over Isaac's shoulder so he can see the faces of the students as they scroll across the screen. "You think there's something to this?"

Isaac grunts back and keeps typing, and Stiles refuses to meet Hale's eyes when the man glances over to him. He already know what they'll find: Jane Doe hadn't been a werewolf in high school. She'd been awkward and shy, and she'd had seizures; seizures that her peers had, in their cruelty and ignorance, taken upon themselves to film. They probably went and posted the video somewhere online, maybe even sent out a mass text to the whole school. 

He glances toward the metal table where she lies, covered by a white sheet. I'm sorry, he thinks, because it sucks that she had to go through that, and it sucks that she's been murdered, and it sucks that Stiles has gone and eaten part of her brain.

It all just really sucks.

"Erica Reyes!" Isaac proclaims loudly.

"How did you know that?" Hale growls, suddenly standing uncomfortably close, his blue-green-brown eyes are narrowed. He looks like he's seconds away from dragging Stiles in for questioning. 

"Uh," Stiles answers intelligently.

"Stiles is psychic," Isaac blurts and then manages to compose himself, adding solemnly, "He's shy about it. We try to keep it quiet."

Hale's expression says 'bullshit' so eloquently that Stiles is genuinely impressed. But, just for good measure, the deputy says out loud, "You're joking. This is some sort of initiation? Haze the new deputy or something?"

Stiles would very much like to say that they are joking. He'd like to explain that the Chief ME is a lying bastard who should never be trusted, but then of course he'd have to explain how he magically figured out where Jane Doe went to high school. 

Psychic just sounds a lot better than 'when I eat someone's brain I get flashbacks from their life along with a bunch of other stuff. It's weird, but so's being a zombie so…'

"Not joking," Stiles mumbles, flashing a quick glare in Isaac's direction. "It's a whole thing. Let's not make a big deal out of it."

Deputy Hale regards him, his gaze steady and his body still. "I don't believe in psychics."

"Yeah, well I'm not gonna lie, most days it's pretty unbelievable." Ruffling a hand through his hair, exasperated with this entire awkward situation, Stiles takes a step backward in the direction of the nearest door, half-hoping it’s not the supply cupboard but mostly not caring if it is. "Anyway, uh. Bye." 

He spends seven minutes hiding in the locker room, morosely shoveling noodles into his mouth, and then Isaac shouts for him. 

"So, that went well," Isaac says, as Stiles cautiously looks around to make certain Hale is not still in the morgue. "New deputy. _Nice,_ am I right?"

"Psychic, Isaac? _Really?_ "

Isaac's shrugs, "It's the best I could come up with on short notice. Anyway, how are you feeling? You're really not experiencing any side-effects from the aconite?"

"Outside of the urge to _throttle you_ I feel relatively normal."

Isaac considers him for a moment. "Let's run some tests. You could be immune."

"No, god, _stop_. Isaac, we have actual work to do right now."

"Which one of us is the boss?" 

Stiles clamps his mouth closed but when Isaac only stares at him he slumps. "You are."

"Right. Besides, the more data I collect the easier it'll be for me to synthesize a cure. We've identified our Jane Doe, given the nice new deputy a good lead to chase after, that's half our work done right there."

…………………………………………………….

It's nearing one o'clock, Erica Reyes has been returned to cold storage and Stiles is finishing up a post-mortem when Jordan steps down into the morgue and Stiles nearly shoves the deceased cardiac victim off the table. "What are you doing here?" he asks, embarrassingly shrill.

Jordan smiles. "Wrapping up the Delayney case." Isaac passes over a file, which Jordan accepts with a nod before turning back to Stiles. "Also I'm under orders to get you out of the morgue for a bit."

Stiles glares at Isaac, but the ME just holds up his hands and he might be good at playing the innocent but Stiles is also pretty good at detecting bullshit. He frowns at Jordan. "Orders?"

"Yeah, the Sheriff sent me over. You know, your dad?"

If he weren't wearing rubber gloves covered in gore Stiles would smack a hand over his face. He almost does it anyway. "Oh man. Just tell him I'm fine!"

"Sheriff's orders," Jordan says with a shrug. "How long do you need?"

"My dad is literally the worst," Stiles mutters, with zero and both Jordan and Isaac smirk because they recognize it for the lie that it is. 

"Wash up, I can finish up with that," Isaac tells him, and reluctantly Stiles obeys.

He finishes washing up, exchanges his lab coat for his jacket and then slumps his way out of the morgue. "Thanks," Jordan calls back to Isaac, holding up the file in his hand and then follows Stiles to the elevator.

"I can't believe he's meddling in my life like this," Stiles grumbles, jabbing his finger at the button. "I just saw him on Sunday!"

"Yeah, but you haven't been around the station at all," Jordan says. "I'm not supposed to mention this, but I overheard your dad talking about maybe moving that coffee maker back into his office."

"Pfft, won't he be surprised when he founds out I tossed that piece of junk."

Jordan laughs, the sound soft and light and so damned familiar and that something squeezes tight in Stiles' chest, for a second it's impossible to breathe. Then the elevator arrives with a 'ding' and a shrill screech and the moment is broken.

"You okay?" Jordan asks as they being their jerky ascent. 

"Sure." Stiles rubs a hand through his hair. He forgot his hat in his locker and all of a sudden he remembers Scott telling him that morning that his roots are starting to show. He hunches shoulder, tries to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the warped metal of the doors.

"It looks fine," Jordan tells him softly. The elevator lurches to a halt and there's a few seconds where Stiles wonders if they've gotten stuck, but then the doors squeal open, releasing them. "Come on, let's coffee at that place around the corner."

Outside of a brief phase in high school where he was determined to create the most sugary caffeinated beverage on the planet, Stiles has always preferred his coffee black. That's one thing that hasn't changed. What has changed is that, to really appreciate a good cup of coffee he also needs a few teaspoons of chili pepper, which most coffee places don't have on hand. "Hey, hold on," Jordan says before Stiles takes a drink. They head across to the street to where Jordan's cruiser is parked.

"Sort of like old times," Stiles says as he climbs into the front passenger seat.

Jordan reaches across to the glove compartment and opens it. There's a bottle of chili pepper spice inside, which the blond hands over, smiling shyly. "Just in case."

The freshness seal is still in place, and Stiles opens it carefully, avoiding Jordan's gaze. "Thanks." It's easier to focus on adding the spice to his drink, stirring it meticulously than to think about how he can smell Jordan's soap in the confined space, feel the heat from where the other man's arm is resting right there, close enough to touch.

"Isaac's trying to fix me up now," he blurts, and then takes a long drink of coffee in an effort to shut himself up.

"Yeah?"

Stiles clears his throat, shrugs. "She's a Nereid, apparently…"

The silence feels choked by all the things they refuse to say. When Stiles steals a glance at the other man, Jordan is taking a long gulp of coffee, and then those blue eyes shift in Stiles' direction and he quickly turns away, pretends to be watching something out on the street. "Maybe you should," Jordan says.

Stiles gapes. "What? Seriously?" 

Jordan doesn't meet his eye, just takes another drink and shrugs. "If you think you're ready."

It's not what he'd been expecting to hear, though now that Stiles thinks about it he wonders what he had been expecting. He stares openly at Jordan's profile until the other man catches him. "Have you –" Stiles asks, cuts himself off only to start again, "Have you?"

Jordan holds his gaze and nods. "Once or twice. Nothing serious," he adds, and his tone sounds like a promise. Stiles swallows thickly. Jordan clears his throat. "So what's a Nereid, anyway?"

"I don't know."

"You mean you haven't already researched the entire history of Nereids already? Are you feeling okay?" He stretches a hand out, rests the palm against Stiles' forehead like he's checking for a fever.

Stiles swats the hand away. "I'm not going on the date, Jerk. I've got other plans."

"Actual plans? Or curling up on the couch

"I am an introvert! How dare you invalidate lifestyle!"

Jordan rolls his eyes. "Stiles, you are not an introvert. I don't what you are but you're not that—"

"You know what I am," Stiles can't help but say. "And what I am is a guy who doesn't like dropping truth bombs on unsuspecting Nereids." 

"You're impossible!" Jordan says. "You keep talking like rejection is a foregone conclusion!"

"Because it is!"

"No, it isn't!" Jordan snaps, and then takes a deep breath. "Stiles, if you had told me – if we could have just…" he turns away and for the next few moments Stiles feels wretched, and then Jordan turns back around, glaring down at the steering wheel in front of him, fiddling with the lid of his coffee cup, his mouth pinched in that way it gets when he's trying to pick out the right words. "If you'd told what had happened we could have worked it out. I cared about you. I still care about you."

Stiles reaches out, rests his hand on Jordan's arm and squeezes gently, and then he lets his empty coffee cup fall into the foot well so he can climb across the cramped space and settle into the other man's lap.

"Stiles, what—" 

But Stiles cuts the man off with his mouth, devours whatever Jordan is about to say and swallows it down. Only then there's a hand against this chest pressing, shifting back and the moment Stiles breaks the kiss Jordan blinks stunned blue eyes at him, asking, "Stiles, what—" 

"You care about me. I care about you," Stiles says. "Come on, baby. Let's fuck it out."

He leans forward again, already anticipating the kiss but Jordan's hand becomes a more solid pressure against his chest, holding him back. "You had breakfast this morning, didn't you?" Jordan asks.

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?" Stiles grinds his hips against the other man's. "Come on. This will be good for both of us."

"Stiles."

And something in that tone, in the way Jordan is looking at him and holding him steady but keeping him back at the same time snaps Stiles out of it. "Shit," he breathes. "Shit shit shit." He scrambles back to the other side of the car, mortified and furious at himself.

"It's okay," Jordan is telling him. "It's fine. I understand."

"It's _not_ fine! God, that was – that was so shitty, Jordan. I'm sorry. That was just …" he presses his palms flat against his face and wishes he could disappear. "I thought I'd gotten better at knowing what's me and what's, y'know, _not_ me but sometimes it's just instinctive and I say something or I _do_ something and …"

"You don't need to explain. I understand." Jordan shifts in the seat, turns to face Stiles more. "Stiles, we're fine. It wasn't you, it didn't mean anything. I know that."

"I hate this." And Jordan doesn't reach for him, doesn't touch him, doesn't say anything at all, and Stiles is so fucking grateful. So relieved that the other man just lets him curl in on himself and spend a few moments sinking into abject self-pity, trusting that Stiles can pull himself out again, because Stiles does. 

"That's why," Stiles says, pulling his hands from his face. "That's why I broke up with you instead of trying to talk, because I knew, Jordan. I _knew_ you would have stuck with me, and I couldn't do that to you. And I can't to that to Agatha it's just … I'm a mess and half the time I am literally not even myself. I'm like a reverse-Snickers commercial."

Jordan sighs, and now he does reach an arm out, pulling Stiles to lean against him. "It wouldn't have made a difference to me," he says, presses a kiss to the side of Stiles' head. "It still doesn't. And it won't make a difference to whomever you decide to get serious with. Whenever you decide your ready for that."

"God, you're such a good fucking guy, it's honestly a little off-putting."

Because Jordan is a good guy, but also a little bit of an asshole, he jostle Stiles and says, "Is that you are your breakfast talking?"

Stiles glares. "It's both of us. We're fucking disgusted."

…………………………………………………….

The other thing about eating brains is that, along with the odd vision or so Stiles also inherits personality traits. It's sort of like being a little bit tipsy and deciding that it's absolutely necessary to have chocolate chip cookies, even if that means walking five blocks at two in the morning to find a shop that's open. That's the sort of choice that Stiles might have considered without the help of alcohol, but his lazy ass would have probably decided to leave it till morning. With the alcohol, however, is a different story.

That's almost worse, because Stiles knows that in that moment he had been missing Jordan, missing their closeness and yeah, they've been managing as friends pretty well, but it's not the same. But that doesn't mean he would have jeopardized their friendship, and it certainly doesn't mean he would have tried to solve their emotional problems by physical means. Which is why he comes striding back into the morgue saying, "Erica Reyes is a pain in the ass minx!" 

"Another vision?" someone who is definitely not Isaac says.

Stiles pivots sharply, shoes squeaking. "Uh, hey there, deputy. I didn't see you lurking suspiciously in that corner." He turns to Isaac, jerks his head in Hale's direction and whispers, "What's he doing here?"

"He can hear you," Hale points out blandly.

Isaac just shrugs. "He came in looking for you."

"But what does he want?"

"He's a werewolf, Stiles, there's no need to whisper," Isaac tells him.

Derek mutters, "You're not even whispering that quietly."

Throwing his hands up, Stiles raises his voice, just to make a point. "Yes, I'm aware that he's a werewolf, Isaac, _thank-you_! What does the werewolf want?" then he turns to Hale and repeats, "What are you doing here?"

Derek raises his eyebrows, and his expression is arrogant and smirking and Stiles sort of wants to punch the guy in the face. "Isaac was just telling me that your visions are triggered when you interacted with something the victim saw, heard, or smelled."

"Oh yeah?" Stiles asks, staring pointedly at Isaac. "He was?" Isaac shrugs and there's nothing that Stiles can do except agree, so he does. "Sure. What's your point?"

Hale nods. "You're going to come with me."

"Why?"

"So you can see, hear and smell."

Snorting, Stiles heads toward the locker room. "No thanks. I can do all of that perfectly well right here."

"I have the victim's address," Hale says, following.

"That's great, congratulations." 

Hale smacks a palm against the door of the locker when Stiles goes to open it. "Are you being this obtuse on purpose?" he growls. "I'm holding CSI back from the apartment until you take a look at it. So come on."

"Why would you do that? Don't do that!"

"Why not?" Hale growls.

"Uh, I'm busy? This right here? This is the morgue, where I work. I don't have time to do your job for you!"

And because Isaac's just that kind of horrible asshole, the blond pops his head in, offering brightly, "Technically helping with the investigation is part of the job."

Hale gestures like 'there you go' and then waits impatiently while Stiles mouths 'traitor' at Isaac and re-locks his locker.

…………………………………………………….

Erica Reyes had an apartment in the middle of the commercial district, a moderately sized one bedroom in a yellow brick building. CSI is parked out front when Derek pulls his cruiser to the curb, and they turn impatient glares on him the moment Stiles steps out of the car.

Beside him, Derek snorts. "They haven't even been waiting that long."

Stiles doesn't care about that, it's just that he can see Rodriguez out there, sitting in the opened back of the black CSI van, and Stiles owes that guy fifty bucks. "Whatever," he mutters. "Lets get this over with."

Purposely hunching his shoulders and using Hale as a human-shield, Stiles manages to duck into the apartment without drawing attention to himself. The building is well maintained, which means that when the elevator arrives the doors glide open silently, and the ride up to the fourth floor is smooth and quiet.

"It's this one," Hale says, even though the yellow tape makes it perfectly obvious which apartment they're looking for, and then he stands just to the side of the door to allow Stiles through first.

The inside of Erica Reyes' apartment is bright and organized. There are no dishes sitting on the counter, no clutter in the living room, the only things that look out-of-place are a pair of pointy blue suede stilettos cast off in the hallway that Stiles promptly trips over, and a T-shirt cast off over the arm of the couch.

"Anything?" Hale asks, as Stiles wanders around. 

There are photos sitting in framed on shelves: family and friends, and pictures hanging on the walls. No pets, no indication that Erica was in a romantic relationship. He thinks about his vision of her seizure, thinks about her lying in cold storage back at the morgue with no one to ID her and it makes him sad. It all seems so lonely and miserable.

"She wasn't around here much," Derek says, coming up behind him and nearly giving Stiles a heart attack.

He's wandered into the bedroom, which has bright happy yellows contrasted by rich, elegant purples, Stiles peaks into the closet where he sees a lot of leather and high heels. "What do you mean?" he asks. "Like, she had a second home somewhere, or she worked a lot? What?"

He doesn't get to hear what Derek says because as Stiles' eyes skim the room they catch on the unmade queen sized bed with dark purple sheets that look like they might be silk and his vision blurs sharply, shifts.

He's kissing a brunette, his fingers woven into soft wavy hair, dark brown eyes with pupils blown wide stare up at him, half-lidded, set in a square face. "Come on," the brunette urges.

"Hold on," Erica breathes, nudging the brunette back onto the bed with a strong but gentle push. "Gonna make this last all night, Ally…"

"Holy _god_ ," Stiles gasps when the vision abruptly cuts out. "She was _not_ single!" he tells Hale as he pack-pedals out of the room, not wanting to accidentally trigger another sex-related vision. "Definitely not single!" 

"You got something?" His expression morphs from curious to concerned and Stiles doesn't want to know how he looks, flushed and semi-aroused because of a dead woman's memory. So awkward. "Hey, take it easy," Hale tells him, his hand closing gently on Stiles' upper arm. "Just take a second, get your breath back."

"Ha," Stiles laughs. "Ha ha."

"You're supposed to be getting your breath back," Derek chides. "Sarcastic laughter is going to help with that." Stiles glares, which seems to settle Derek for some reason because the concern clears from his expression, leaving only that condescending, smirking horrible face in its wake. "What did you see?"

"That's not important," Stiles dismisses quickly. "But I think Erica was dating someone named Allison."

Derek frowns. "Who is Allison?"

"I have no idea," Stiles says. "You're the freaking deputy, figuring that out is your job. It's just, from what I saw whatever Erica and this other woman had going on was, well, intimate. Like, more than a one night stand kind of intimate. That's all I got."

"And her name is Allison? That's it?" Derek presses. "No defining characteristics? Nothing that might help us narrow it down?"

"She's a brunette?" Stiles can picture Allison perfectly in his head; can visualize the pendant she'd had around his neck. The more he concentrates the more something curls inside of him, a smiling familiarity, warmhearted possessiveness. It isn't his feeling at all he reminds himself, but he lets it settle over him hoping it will lead him to some other useful detail.

"Argent," he picks out after a moment. "I think."

Derek's face pinches up. "Argent? Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure, why? Do you know them?"

"They're an old family. Hunters."

"Oh great," Stiles says, sarcastically. "Wonderful. Well, my work here is done." He starts striding to the door only for Derek to hook his fingers into the hood of Stiles' hoodie, bringing him up short. "Hey, that's police brutality, buddy!" Stiles snips, twisting around to swat at the man's hand. "Drop it! Dro-op it!" When Derek lets him go, Stiles glares. "Bad wolf," he mutters, smoothing his sweater back into place. 

Derek snorts. "I might need your help questioning Miss Argent."

"You don't need my help," Stiles points out. "Allow me to repeat: you, deputy; me, medical examiner. My job is _dead_ people. Not _live_ people."

The pinch-faced little frown tells Stiles everything he needs to know about how Hale feels about this, but at least he doesn't argue. They head back in the direction of the elevator, Stiles flipping his hood up over his head and hunching over when they hit curb as Derek gives the CSI team the all-clear. "I'll drop you back at the morgue," Hale says, even though Stiles is already hovering by the passenger door of the cruiser.

"That would be appreciated." It's not that far a drive and they make it in complete silence. "Good luck or whatever," Stiles mumbles as he climbs out of the car. Hale doesn't look at him at all, just waits until Stiles it pulling open the door to the building before he drives away.

…………………………………………………….

The thing about being a zombie is, the cons outweigh the pros, so much so that Stiles can't really think of any pros at all. Obviously ingesting human brains ranks number one by a significant margin on any cons list that he could put together, but there's other things. Like his complexion, because Stiles sort of misses that; it hadn't even been that great before, he's always been pale, but that was nothing compared to his unnatural pallor now.

Stiles also used to have natural brown hair and that had been neither here nor there to him. It was just hair, that happened to be brown and on his head. Now, Stiles really misses it. There are people who can rock weird hair; they can pull off bubblegum pink, or shiny lavender or even white. Some people look really good with silver-white hair. Sadly, Stiles is not among them.

"Something smells super weird!" Scott announces when he comes home that night. "Please tell me you haven't been using our good pots to cook something with your ingredient of choice."

Stiles wanders out of the bathroom where he is in the process of working the hair dye cream into his, hands ensconced in loose fitting clear-plastic gloves. "Dude, you have been smelling this shit for over a year now, please tell me that you can recognize it as now. Also, why do you always associate it with food. That's disturbing."

Scott tosses his keys onto the counter, wanders over to sniff at Stiles' scalp from a closer position and then shrugs. "Whatever. Trying a new shade?"

"Naw, I think I've given up. Hot cocoa is as close as I'll ever come to what my hair used to look like." He wanders back into the bathroom so he can check the mirror, make sure he hasn't left a part of his hair bare. "I picked up the milk."

Scott grunts in acknowledgement and wanders off. Stiles finishes lathering his head, adjusts the towel around his neck, shoves the gloves into the hair dye box and then settles onto the couch. He scans through Netflix, selects 'American Zombie' and settles back.

Right after it happened, everyone had just assumed that Stiles was suffering from PTSD. It made sense, boat party, lots of people followed by onset of craziness that resulted in a massive number of deaths. The newspaper the next day had led with the headline: Boat Party Massacre.

Scott, being innately naïve had been sort of horrible at dealing. He kept trying to put things into perspective for Stiles in an effort to lift his spirits. He'd say stupid shit like, "At least you're not dead," and if Stiles had been coping with survivor's guilt or something, he's pretty sure the well-meaning efforts of his best-friend could have pushed him over the edge. As it was, it just made him feel guilty as shit.

Months later, when Stiles had admitted what he'd become to Scott, sitting right here on this very couch, in fact, Scott had said, "Huh" and then budged his shoulder against Stiles' and said, "Well, at least you're not dead."

Stiles had rolled his eyes. "Dude, I'm _kinda_ dead though."

"No, you're _un_ dead," Scott had corrected. "That's totally different."

It doesn't feel all that different to Stiles, but he's not sure how he can explain that to someone who's just grateful that he's around to hold conversations with and share the cost of rent and utilities. 

"Kira just texted," Scott says, wandering out of his bedroom. His shirt's undone and he's only got one sock on, Stiles figures Scott was probably in the middle of changing out of his work clothes when he'd been interrupted. "You want to come out for a drink with us?"

"Can't," Stiles says, eyes fixed on the TV. He points at his head, where the cream is lathered.

Scott makes an impatient sound. "After that, obviously."

Stiles considers for a moment and then shakes his head. "Not really. Say 'hi' for me, though."

Instead of wandering back into his room, Scott collapses onto the couch. "You should leave it one time," he says. "Just to see."

"Just to see what?" Stiles asks. "How much of asshole I can look like? Dude, when the roots show it looks like I'm going grey. I'm twenty-six!"

"Yeah," Scott says. "But that's not why you do it."

Stiles' hair is naturally white these days, and actually there's nothing really 'natural' about the shade of white it is, either. It's sort of almost a silver, it looks very strange. The only part of him that has outwardly changed to reflect what he has become.

He's naturally lazy and very easily distracted. On good days he could maybe be bothered to scoop out a handful of mouse and run it over his hair. This usually led to him wandering around for an entire day looking as if he'd stuck his finger in an electrical socket, because one of his habits is running a hand through his hair and that's not a problem, unless you've got gel in it. 

The point is, having to perpetually re-color his hair is a pain in the butt, and it's expensive. His new hair though, it makes him look 'other'. That, combined with his pallor, and the dark shadows under his eyes, it's too much. It's bizarre and unnatural and maybe that's what he is now but no way can he bring himself to walk around town looking like that when his dad is up for reelection.

"I'll stick with the Hot Cocoa, thanks," Stiles says.

Scott lets it drop, thankfully, but then he says, "What if I invite Kira back here?"

"It's your place too, buddy," Stiles says, forcing his voice to sound casual. "I don't mind chilling in my room. No sex on the couch."

"No," Scott groans. "I meant we could hang out. All of us. Together."

Stiles checks his watch and is relieved to see that it's time to rinse his hair out. He pats Scott's leg before he gets up, says, "Can't tonight, Scottie. I've got an early shift tomorrow morning." 

"Next time?" Scott calls. 

"Sure thing!" Stiles closes the bathroom. That's one positive of being a zombie, he supposes. Scott can no longer tell when he's lying.

…………………………………………………….

When Stiles gets in to work the next day he realizes that, for the first time since he woke up hungry for human brains, he actually feels pretty good, or at least just a little less horrible because yes, he took something from Erica, but maybe he also gave her something, too: a chance to rest in peace knowing that the person who murdered her got the justice they deserved. The visions that had always felt like horrifying reminders now served a purpose.

Stiles was able to give those visions a purpose.

"You're disturbingly chipper," Isaac comments at the end of the day. "You should get out and solve crimes more often."

Stiles laughs, shakes his head and waves as they part ways.

He's not laughing five hours later when, groggy and dressed in a T-shirt and loose sweats, he stumbles to answer the front door and finds Deputy Derek Hale standing there, looking pristine as ever, and not the least bit tired. Stupid werewolves.

"Dude," Stiles groans, rubbing a hand through his mess of air. "Boundaries."

"Can I come in?" Derek asks.

Stiles frowns because, is this guy serious? Apparently he is. "No."

Derek purses his lips, glances around the hallway. "I need to talk to you."

"Do you know what time it is?" 

Derek actually goes to check is watch and Stiles has to cut him off, "Can't this wait?"

"No," Derek says. "It won't take long, I just—"

Scott wanders out of his room, eyes glowing beta-gold and eyeing Derek suspiciously. "Stiles, is everything okay?" 

Even though Scott directs the question very obviously to Stiles, Derek says, "It's fine."

Stiles throws his hands up in the air because he just wants to go back to sleep. "This dude won't go away." He turns back to Derek and says, "If you need to talk then talk, I'm not letting you in my apartment. I don't know you."

Derek's gaze shifts from Stiles to Scott, his face pinched like he's accidentally swallowed an entire lemon and is hoping no one noticed. "It's about the case."

Stiles waits, leaning his weight against the opened door. Behind him, Scott stands with his arms crossed over his bare chest. He's wearing only boxers. There are smiley faces on them, but Scott's still making a valiant effort to appear menacing. Stiles appreciates that.

Giving in, Derek finally continues, "I spoke with the Argents but they're insisting that their dauhter's on a trip overseas. They won't give me any way to contact her, and they're claiming that Allison never knew Erica Reyes."

"They're hunters, right? Or were?" Stiles asks. "They probably found out their daughter was dating a werewolf, lured Erica out somehow and then killed her. Case solved."

Derek is shaking his head before Stiles even finishes. "The Argents were a prominent hunting family, but after werewolves and other species started coming forward and publicly integrating, the Argents retired. These days they're brought in to consult sometimes, but they're not active. Any zealots in the family have long since been incarcerated. Besides," he finishes. "Their alibis check out."

Stiles sighs. "I don't know what to tell you, Derek."

"I brought you this." Derek pulls a plastic Ziploc from the pocket of his BHPD jacket.

"Uh, thanks. I always wanted my very own evidence bag."

"It's a pendant," Derek explains. "It was recovered from Erica Reyes' apartment."

"Okay. Still not getting it, dude. Explain."

"You need to stop calling me 'dude'," Derek growls. "That pendant is the Argent crest. It belonged to Allison Argent." He waits a beat, like he's expecting Stiles to connect the dots and when he doesn't, Derek rolls his eyes, and says, "Well? Are you getting anything?"

"What?" Scott asks, confused. Stiles hasn't told him about masquerading as a psychic.

Right now, he's too busy matching Derek's glare. Defensive, he snaps, "It's midnight. As in, the middle of the night."

"I'm trying to solve a murder!"

"And I'm trying to sleep! It's not like you can go haring off right now anyway! I'll get back to you!" He closes the door and then locks it.

"I'm so confused," Scott says. "Why did a dude in a deputy's uniform show up at our door and hand you a piece of evidence taken from a crime scene?"

Rubbing a hand over his face Stiles says, "Don't worry about it. Go back to sleep."

"What is going on?"

"My dad hired a new deputy, apparently. That was him," Stiles explains. "He thinks I'm psychic."

It's not a very long story, which is good because Stiles is exhausted. Technically speaking, he doesn't think that zombies need sleep because after he was turned he went at least an entire week without it and there hadn't been any side effects. He does get cranky, though. Groggy and cranky. Zombies apparently still require some down time. 

Either that, or twenty-six years of being trained to think of sleep as essential have resulted in Stiles developing certain habits and all of this is psychosomatic. 

When he's finished catching Scott up his friend seems more excited than anything. "Did you?"

"Did I what, Scott?" Stiles asks, rubbing at his eye. 

"Did you get anything from the necklace?"

"Oh, for the love of -- I'm not actually psychic!" Stiles snaps, stomps back to his room and flops face-first onto his bed, the evidence bag still in his hand.

He feels bad about all of it when he wakes up the next morning, still sprawled on his stomach and hanging half out of his own bed. The evidence bag is still in his hand.

The thing is, as messed up as his life has become it's at least familiar to him now. He gets up and he goes to work and he knows what he can expect. Stiles isn't alone the way he was in the beginning, he has people who know, and who still care about him. Sometimes Stiles is able to identify a body when no one else can, pass on a few clues to help a case along, and it's okay. Not good, but it's better and he's doing fine.

Derek Hale is something else entirely. He's broody and intense and he has no idea what Stiles is, would probably rip him apart if he ever found out the truth. There's something strange about him, something suspicious, and every time he shows up it feels like there's someone kneeling on Stiles' chest which, he has no idea what that's about, but it's uncomfortable and annoying.

Regardless of all of that though? It had felt pretty good to put what he is to use. Like maybe there was a point to it all, or that Stiles could at least do something, give something back instead of just taking. 

He stares at the pendant ensconced in it's plastic evidence bag and thinks that the only reason he's hesitating right now is that he isn't sure he'll be able to stop after this. If all of this leads to finding who was responsible for Erica's death, how can he go back to the way things were? He's not sure that's possible.

Ultimately though? It's not really a choice. Not for Stiles, anyway.

"Gotta go, Scotty!" he calls as he rushes to the front door.

"In your pajamas?" Scott mumbles blearily.

"Shit!" Stiles turns around and dashes back to his room, slamming his door closed.

Five minutes later, washed and dressed, evidence bag in hand, he heads to the front door. "Bye!"

"Good luck, dude. Whatever you're doing."

There's no science to how this works, which just means that Stiles hasn't really figured it all out. Sometimes he gets a lot of visions, and sometimes he barely gets any and sure, he told Derek that they're triggered by certain sounds or scents or what have you, and that wasn't a lie. But sometimes they're triggered by emotion too, and sometimes Stiles will experience the side-effects of the brain he's eaten for a few days afterward, and sometimes those side-effects barely last a day. He has no idea what makes one brain different from another.

What he does know is that eating more of the same brain strengthens those side effects.

"Oh good, you're here," Isaac greets when Stiles bounds down the steps into the morgue. "I need you to—"

"Not yet! Be right back! Busy!" 

Stiles eats another half-pound of Erica's brain mixed into a spicey curry that he heats in the microwave. Then hunkers down at the break room table, staring at the necklace that he's taken out carefully from the plastic bag. "Come on, Erica," he whispers. "Come on."

Five minutes after that, once he's caught his breath, he's rushing up the steps again. 

"What the hell, Stiles!" Isaac shouts after him. "I'm your boss, you know! You work here!"

"Can't talk, Isaac, I'm working a case."

No one tries to stop him when he rushes into the station like a whirlwind, mostly because it's not a new thing, they're used to him. He finds Derek's desk because Derek's sitting at it, and he slams his hands down on it, breathless. "I know where to find Allison."

Derek covers the mouthpiece of his telephone and hisses, "I'm on the phone."

"Right, sorry. Sorry." Pinching his mouth closed, Stiles steps back, nodding a greeting at a few familiar faces, glances around to see if there are any donut boxes or new coffee machines lying around the station, there aren't. The blinds on his dad's office are closed, which means he's taking a serious call, so Stiles doesn't slip away to go and say 'hi', but Jordan's working at his own desk and Stiles kisses the air and winks, and then spends a moment frantically trying to assess if that's something that he would do regularly or if Erica's brain is messing with him again. Either way, Jordan just rolls his eyes and shakes his head, seeming more amused than anything.

After a moment Derek hangs up, and Stiles smacks his palms back down on the desk, purely for dramatic effect. "I know where to find Allison Argent."

Derek doesn't seem very excited about the news. "I thought you weren't interested in the case."

"Yeah, because it was midnight. Now it's a sensible hour. Come one. Let's go." He heads out, not even waiting to see if Derek will follow, mostly because he's feeling a rush of energy that might be residual werewolf endorphins from Erica's brain. All he can think is 'go go go' and he feels stupidly invincible. And sexy.

"This way," Derek says from behind him, striding toward a BHPD vehicle as he fishes the keys from his pocket.

"She's in Beacon Hills," Stiles starts explaining as Derek pulls out of the station's parking lot. "I recognized the apartment building in the vision."

"She might not be there," Derek points out, as Stiles directs him through traffic with exaggerated waving gestures. "Her parents said she was out of town."

"I don't know about that. I think they might have been lying. There was this whole secretive thing going on. In my vision, I mean. Like Erica was totally Nancy Drew'ing her way up to the apartment."

Derek glances at him. "Was she worried about being followed?"

Stiles considers that question carefully. "I think so, yeah." He doesn't know what that means, because Allison and Erica had clearly had a good relationship. Was Erica worried about Allison's family? Or someone else maybe?

When they knock on apartment 323 there is no immediate answer, but Derek's brows scrunch up and his head cocks. "What, can you hear something?" Stiles whispers. "Is someone in there? What's happening?"

"Stiles!" Derek hisses at him. "Shut up."

"Knock again," Stiles commands and, when the deputy doesn't move fast enough, knocks himself. He has no idea why, but he leans closer to the door and says, "Little birds should be afraid of big bad kitty cats."

"What?" Derek asks, blandly.

"What what?" Stiles repeats. Derek's dark brows climb further up his forehead and Stiles shrugs, sort of helpless. "Selina Kyle," he says, and then, when Derek looks even more baffled. "Catwoman? Really? No clue? Oh my god." 

The door is wrenched open a second later, and they both turn to see a brunette glaring at them suspiciously. "Who are you?" 

"Uh," Stiles says intelligently.

Derek, on the other hand, collects himself, pulling his badge from his pocket. "Beacon Hills Sheriff's Department. I'm Deputy Derek Hale. Are you Allison Argent?"

The brunette takes Derek's badge but continues staring at Stiles. "Why did you say that?"

Sheepish, Stiles rubs a hand through his hair, and then scratches the back of his neck. "Sorry," he blurts. "Sorry. It sounded creepy and threatening and I didn't mean … I'm sorry…"

She snorts. "It's just … I know someone who used to say things like that…"

"Was it Erica Reyes?" Derek hazards, and the woman looks away sharply as she composes herself. "Are you Allison Argent?"

The woman nods, then steps aside, holding the door open a little further to let them in.

"How did you even find me?" she asks, once they've settled onto chairs.

Derek stares at him pointedly, so Stiles clears his throat and says, "Would you believe … I'm psychic?"

Allison frowns. "Normally, no. But I don't see how else you would have known to say what you did."

"Erica liked Catwoman?" 

Allison rolls her eyes. "She liked comic books." For a moment she looks tender, and then her expression crumples and she has to wipe tears from her eyes. "I'm sorry," she says after a moment. She clears her throat. "I'm sorry it's just… she's dead, isn't she? That's why you're here."

Derek regards her steadily. "Why do you think that?" 

Allison looks like she's bracing herself and then she starts talking.

As it turns out, Allison and Erica met in their last year of high school, when the Argent's had moved to Phoenix. Erica hadn't been a werewolf then, had been quiet and shy and spent her time actively trying to disappear in the middle of a crowded school. Allison had been the new girl, something that had garnered her popularity for all of three days before the novelty wore off and her impatience with the arrogance of the 'popular kids' had led to her becoming a social outcast. She and Erica had hit off.

"She started courting packs during college," Allison explains. "The medication for her epilepsy was becoming less effective and she was worried," she pauses, licks her lips. "We were both worried."

"How did you parents feel about Erica's wanting to become a werewolf?" Derek asks.

"Fine," Allison says, frowning. "They didn't mind really. Why?" She seems genuinely puzzled but after a moment Stiles sees realization dawn. Allison shakes her head. "No, it wasn't like that. My parents, they understood. They liked Erica."

Eventually Erica received the bite after she graduated but never settled into a pack. "It made her a different person," Allison says, smiling. "Or, it made her able to be herself," she corrects.

Healthy for the first time in her life, confident and freshly out of school, Erica and Allison had moved to Beacon Hills intending to settle down and start fresh. There were enough werewolves in town that Erica wasn't at risk of becoming a full-scale omega, but since there were no established packs, either, she got to maintain her independence. She worked at a construction company and Allison found a job employing her certification as a legal assistant for a small firm.

That was how she met Matt Daehler. He was a part time courier for the firm and liked to flirt with Allison when she had documents she had to send along to court. "I was very clear," Allison insists. "I told him I wasn't interested, and I asked him to stop. When he kept on, I told the legal partners and he was dismissed. There's a restraining order in place, and I filed harassment charges."

"He didn't stop though, did he?" Stiles fills in, because he's starting to understand exactly what happened to Erica Reyes. There's a tight knot of anger sitting low in his gut and it's only twenty percent his. "Erica stepped in, didn't she?"

Squeezing her eyes shut, Allison rubs a hand over her face and then glares, furious. "I told her not to. I told her I could take care of it but I think … I think she must have. She felt invincible, being a wolf. She was certain she could handle it …"

Allison can't confirm any of it, of course. Erica hadn't been missing for very long, and since she knew she'd be asked to wait twenty-four hours before she could file a missing person's, that's what she'd been doing. "But I went out looking for her … I've been trying to find her …"

Stiles winces. "We’ve got her." He tries to sound comforting even though by 'we' he means the county morgue and there's nothing comforting about that.

Allison nods, oddly composed. "Can I see her?" 

Stiles needs her to formally ID the body but Allison looks so cautiously hopeful that instead of telling her that he just says, "Of course."

…………………………………………………….

"Don't you have a partner?" Stiles asks later when Derek once again drags him away from his actual work to go and check out the address he's found for one, Matthew Daehler. "Isn't there someone who is actually _qualified_ to do this hand-holding bull shit for you?"

"Hand holding?" Derek asks, staring at him blankly.

Stiles mutters darkly under his breath and tries valiantly to pretend that he's not secretly delighted to be seeing this case through to the end.

Matt Daehler lives in an entirely unremarkable two-storey newly built house. The kind that lack any and all character from the outside, there isn't even much of a garden, just a single tree looking freshly planted and tragically lonely, and a stretch of even cut grass.

Daehler smiles at them when he opens the door, doing his best to be charming until Derek announces that he's being brought in for questioning.

Since Stiles was a little kid he always wanted to interrogate someone in an interrogation room. As a kid he'd stage mock interrogations of his various toys, and whenever his dad was working late and Stiles was left to amuse himself at the station, sometimes deputy Miller would humor him, and fill-in for his T-rex toy on the hot seat. 

For the entire car ride over to Daehlers house Stiles had been anticipating this opportunity, because Derek might at the very least let him watch from behind the two-way mirror.

Daehler puts a stop to that fantasy when he draws a gun and starts swearing about 'that stupid werewolf bitch' and how 'Allison is mine, we're in love'. Then he puts a bullet through his own drywall when he tries to shoot Derek in the face. Apparently he's never fired a gun before and didn't anticipate the kickback.

It's not as exciting as Stiles imagines breaking a criminal in an interrogation room would have been, but it's pretty exciting. Derek cuffs Daehler and then shoves him in the back of the cruiser, and then spends the entire ride back to the station reminding Stiles to turn back around in his seat and "Stop taunting him, Stiles. Shut up."

Of course, Derek radioed in to the Department but that doesn't even occur to Stiles until he's gleefully trudging alongside as Derek drags their murderer into the station and ends up almost literally running into the Sheriff, aka Stiles' dad, who has apparently come out to congratulate his deputy on his arrest. His dad's pleased smile morphs quickly into a suspicious glare and he says, "Please tell me that your timing is a coincidence." 

Derek pauses in the hall, still holding Daehler in place with a strong grip, his eyes bouncing between Stiles and his dad. "You know him, Sheriff?" Derek asks, cautious.

"You mean my son?" Stiles' dad scoffs. "Yeah."

"Your … son…" The look on Derek's face spells out 'fuuuuuuuuuuck' very plainly. 

It changes to 'FUUUUUUCK' when Stiles' dad very calmly waves Jordan over to take charge of processing Daehler so he can drag Derek into his office to have a friendly talk about why it was necessary for Stiles to be present while Derek brought in a suspected murderer. Stiles imagines that the Derek is probably wishing he didn't radio in the fact that a weapon had been discharged during the arrest, three feet away from where Stiles had been standing.

The blinds on the Sheriff's office are closed, and the place is sound-proofed so even if his dad is in there screaming at the top of his lungs there'd be no way to know, but Stiles can't stop grinning. Even when Derek comes out a while later, shoulders hunched and head bowed, and beats a hasty retreat to the break room.

"Hey daddy-o!" Stiles greets cheerfully, stepping into his dad's office.

"Close the door," his dad says, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking like he's fighting a headache. Stiles obediently closes the door and drops into a chair. "Why does my new deputy think that you're psychic?"

Stiles blinks. "Funny story, actually…"

"Paraphrase it," his dad says, cutting him off.

Stiles snaps his mouth closed, and tries to pick out the most salient pieces of this story. "Because he's hot?" 

His dad sighs. "Stiles."

"Well, it sounds a lot better than saying 'I ate the brain of your murder victim because I'm a zombie and now I'm having visions that are relevant to your case!'" His dad stares at him, Stiles stares right back. "And speaking of withholding important information, why didn't you tell me you were bringing in a new deputy?"

His dad rubs his hands over his face. "Stiles, there are a lot of decisions I make as Sheriff that I don't run by you."

"And that's why things like _this_ happen." 

For a moment, his dad looks pained, and then remorseful and then his expression settles on resigned. "Just tell me if this is going to happen again."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you haring off with my deputy to solve crime together, when you're meant to be working at the lab."

"Isaac knew about this. Isaac practically _forced_ me out the door," Stiles points out. "And it was _his_ bright idea to say I was psychic. Anyway, it probably won't happen again. It looks like you maybe traumatized Derek forever so…"

His dad gives him a scrutinizing look. "You sound disappointed."

Stiles tries to appear casual and aloof. "It felt good to help."

Sighing, his dad nods. "I'll see what I can do. Just promise me you'll avoid situations that involve gunfire."

"Come on, dad," Stiles scoffs. "You make it sound like I _invite_ chaos and violence into my life." His dad stares at him. "Don't give me that look, that's unfair! I _do not!_ "


	3. Chapter 3

At some point Derek stops looking like a kicked dog every time Stiles visits the station or a new case brings the deputy down into the morgue, and so Stiles knows that his dad has talked to the guy. That doesn't mean that the Derek invites Stiles out onto a case again, though. He seems perfectly content to accept the scientific findings that Isaac and Stiles present and then go off, ME report in hand, to do the rest on his own. Stiles tells himself he's not disappointed.

What he is, though, is suspicious.

Beacon Hills is notorious, is the thing. It is the home of one of four active Nemetons in all of North America, and unlike the other three Nemetons, the one in Beacon Hills, which happens to be a massive tree growing in the middle of the Preserve, has been drenched in death and sacrifice and apparently now works just as well as the Hellmouth in Sunnydale. 

It's great news for all supernatural creatures who enjoy feeling the extra boost that living near a source of magic brings, but it's not so good for law enforcement. Beacon Hills' Nemeton attracts a lot of craziness; it also seems to actively encourage it, sometimes. Stiles' dad had been offered a significant paycheck for becoming Sheriff there, and a depressingly substantial amount of hazard pay. The point is, most people don't choose to transfer to the BHPD.

Jordan did, but that's because he's a naïve optimist who believes all too much in 'doing his duty', and Derek doesn't exactly strike Stiles as an optimist, and he doesn't seem all that concerned with helping out where he's needed. Nor does he seem remotely phased by the crime rates in what is essentially a small township.

Isaac calls Stiles paranoid, and Jordan assures him that Derek's an 'okay guy', but Stiles will not be deterred. "He's suspicious," he insists. "I don't trust him."

Jordan sighs. "I'll keep an eye on him, okay?"

"Don't patronize me, Parrish," Stiles snarks, but cann't help adding, "Tell me the minute he does something weird."

It's two weeks after working the Erica Reyes case that a body turns up at the morgue, with Derek following soon after. That's not exactly weird, since Derek's a homicide detective, and Stiles works in a morgue. Bodies come in a lot and some of them are murder victims, and some of those murder cases are Derek's responsibility.

This time, though, Stiles decides to needle helpfully, offer his psychic assistance, "If you want. I don't mind," he says, trying for casual.

Derek is staring down at the guy on the slab, but the moment Stiles stops talking he gets this frantic look on his face and steps into Stiles' personal space. "Have you had a vision?"

"Uh … no?" Stiles answers, truthfully. He hasn't eaten in a few days, not anything that counts, for a zombie, anyway.

"Stay out of this," Derek insists, and then he turns on his heel and stalks away.

"Did you see that?" Stiles asks Isaac, who is busy making notations in the report he's writing. "That was weird, right?"

"What?" Isaac asks, looking up from his work. "Oh yeah, weird," he agrees and then goes back to writing.

Stiles narrows his eyes at the door through which Derek has gone, then turns back to the body on the slab, and promptly decides, "I'm hungry."

…………………………………………………….

"I'm telling you, dad," Stiles insists, forty minutes later. "I know what I saw. Something seriously shifty is going on here. You need to tell me _everything_ you know about Derek Hale."

"Stiles, I know this is difficult for you to appreciate," his dad says, in that long-suffering tone that Stiles is all too used to hearing. "But there is such a thing as a right to privacy."

"There's a body in my morgue that might feel differently about you protecting the rights of a corrupt cop!"

"Don't make allegations like that, son. Not without something to back it up."

"I know what I saw," Stiles insists. "Here," he wrangles a file from his shoulder bag and drops it onto his dad's desk. "Open it. That's our findings on the latest John Doe. You know, the dude with no name and no fingers?"

The man's fingertips had been removed several hours after he'd been murdered, as were the man's molars. The intent was clearly to make the body more difficult to ID, which would have been a problem if it weren't painfully obvious that the deputy in charge of solving the case knew exactly who the victim was.

"Derek's already confirmed that the victim was Aiden Green," his dad says. "There. Are we done?"

"No!" Stiles insists. "Not after I saw Derek beating up some guy with freaking metal rebar!"

His dad's expression turns serious and he leans forward. "Where was this? Did this happen today?"

His dad's intensity is startingly. "What?" he blinks, then shakes his head, realizing what's going on. "No. It happened in New York, dad, and _Aiden saw it_."

"Christ, I thought Hale told you to stay out of this?"

"He did. I didn't," Stiles says, and then scowls. "How do _you_ know about that?"

His dad doesn't answer. "Go back to work, would ya? I'm not going to tell you anything else about Derek Hale, especially when part of the reason for his transfer was to start fresh, where people didn't know him."

"There! Right there!" Stiles squawks, pointing accusingly at his dad. "That doesn't strike you as suspicious? Why were people holding grudges at his old precinct? Maybe it was because he was a _dirty cop!_ "

"Slow down, Stiles," his dad cautions. "And for once in your life listen to me: let this go."

…………………………………………………….

It's not that Stiles doesn't ever listen to his dad, but this is important. Beacon Hills is Stiles' town, and the Sheriff's Station is Stiles' place. He's got people there he cares about, people who used to help him with his homework, who would sit with him and sneak him cookies when he was a kid. His dad works there. Jordan works there. There's no way that he can risk doing nothing. There's a lot at stake. 

Stiles is certain that Derek Hale is guilty of something. He looks shifty as fuck at any rate.

Derek used to work in the supernatural division in the NYPD. Stiles tracks down the number for his old precinct and places a call during his break to the woman who used to be Derek's partner.

"I respect the work that you're doing," Braeden Walker tells him over the phone. "But I can't give you information on an ongoing case."

"Wait, ongoing?" Stiles tests. Braeden grunts and Stiles switches tactics. "Well, can you tell me anything about Derek Hale? He was working the case, right? He was your partner?"

"Sort of," Braeden says. "Things work different in this division. There's a little more independence. Even still," she goes on. "Hale was a bit of a lone wolf."

"Ha," Stiles laughs. "Lone wolf. Funny."

Braeden snorts. "He was good with his CIs. Some people thought he got a little too close to them but … I was surprised when he was suspended but looking back at it, I can see how it was always heading there. By the time he transferred, I think most people in the precinct were relieved."

"He was suspended? For what?"

"Like I said, things work a bit different in Supernatural Crimes. That thin blue line can get a lot thinner."

…………………………………………………….

"Why didn't he tell us he got suspended?" Stiles wonders as he and Isaac walk down the street, en route to a bakery place that makes the best coffee in Beacon Hills and the most delicious scones. 

"Well, you guys aren't exactly close," Isaac points out.

"We bonded!" Stiles disagrees, but ultimately has to allow the point. "Why didn't he tell you?"

"Why would you think that I have a special relationship with Hale?"

Stiles snorts. "You were all, bantery. You two are always sort of bantery when he comes by the morgue."

"We're not 'bantery'," Isaac says. "And I don't know him that well, either. Besides, it's not the sort of thing you just walk up tell someone. Didn't your dad say you that Hale wanted a fresh start?"

"So?"

Isaac sighs. "So. All the more reason why he wouldn't be inclined to talk about New York."

"Right. Because he doesn't want to reveal his nefarious past." 

Isaac scoffs and pushes through the swinging door into the bakery. The smell of fresh bread and coffee hits Stiles and he sighs. He really misses this place. Sure he can enjoy the smell, and he can eat the food and drink the coffee but he can't really taste it anymore. Though they make spicy bread that he can at least marginally taste.

There's a woman waiting at the counter with vibrant hair and tallest pumps Stiles has ever seen. She turns around, her coffee in hand and Stiles' vision warps and then blurs. 

"Are you alright?" she asks, hesitating. Her polite concern merged with a kind of distaste, like she doesn't appreciate being delayed like this. There's a skeptical, judging pinch to her brows. 

Stiles takes a deep breath to help center himself, draws himself away from the vision he just had of her and Aiden Greene, the werewolf that's lying in a drawer back at the morgue. "Uh," he says intelligently, and continues struggling to find a coherent reply as she stares at him. "I mean, uh …"

"What my mentally challenged friend here is trying to say," Isaac cuts in, smiling a charming little smile and drawing the woman's narrowed gaze away from Stiles. "Is that he's fine. How kind of you to check."

Isaac, Stiles realizes with dawning horror, is getting his flirt on with the girlfriend of their murdered werewolf victim, someone who knew the potentially dirty cop they're working with. He flails, starts making abrupt slicing motions across his neck, which he morphs into innocent neck-itching when the woman glances in his direction. Isaac, on the other hand, doesn't notice him at all.

"Well!" Stiles cuts in finally. "It was nice talking to you but we've got to be going."

She smirks at them, clearly amused by Stiles' flustered state. "You haven't ordered anything."

"Yeah, but I'm feeling suddenly _really_ nauseous," Stiles tells her. " _So nauseous_ ," he adds, pointedly glaring at Isaac, who makes a face but allows himself to be towed out of the café.

"What was that? I didn't get any coffee! Or lunch! I wanted naan bread, dammit!"

"She's a part of this," Stiles hisses, glancing over his shoulder at where he sees Lydia Martin, walking calmly down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. "Whatever _this_ is."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw it, okay? She's involved in this somehow."

Isaac's frowning so intensely that it's basically consumed his whole face. "What, with our victim?"

"And Derek," Stiles agrees.

"Like a three-way? Nice."

"Not like a three-way!" Stiles cries, smacking his boss' arm. "Oh my god. Isaac, this is serious."

"Stiles, we still don't know what 'this' is! Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Now, where's another good place for lunch, I'm hungry."

Stiles lets himself be chivvied down the street and dragged into another shop, and he even manages to focus on his other work for the rest of the day. When he walks out of the morgue after his shift, however, he finds the redhead from the coffee shop leaning against the side of her peal-colored hybrid. Stiles is fairly certain that is a custom color, and then he panics when he realizes that she's staring right at him, and tries to run back inside.

"Stiles Stilinski, don't you run away from me!" she shouts, her voice has a disturbing amount of authority given how shrill it gets when she yells.

Stiles halts obediently, heart threatening to leap up out of his mouth and sprint down the road without him. "Uh, do I know you?" he asks, unconvincingly, even to his own ears. She's Lydia Martin, and he knows because he can still hear the way that Aiden had said that name to her, the weird inflection, staccato and with strange emphasis.

Lydia smiles at him, amused. She tilts her head to her car and then walks around to climb behind the wheel. The moment he slides into the passenger seat, she child-locks the doors. "Are you kidnapping me?" Stiles asks, panicked. He tries to handle three more times and then gives up.

"Kidnapping the sheriff's kid?" Lydia snorts. "I don't think so. I just need you to listen to me and not run away screaming and I think this is the best way to do that."

This is not at all reassuring. As subtly as possible Stiles fumbles for his phone in his pocket and starts texting Isaac for help as Lydia starts the car and gets out onto the road.

"Where are you taking me?" 

"I don't know. Driving helps me clear my head." Lydia's fingers flex around the wheel, it looks like she's preparing herself for something. "I know what you are."

"I'm human," Stiles insists, perhaps a bit too quickly.

She makes a face. "Look, I don't need you to bullshit me here, okay? I know what you are. You … you know Aiden, right?"

"I've never seen him before," Stiles says. "Before today, I mean. When he showed up at my work. Dead. Because I work in the morgue." She rolls her eyes, and then glances at him pointedly. "Oh," Stiles sighs. "You mean _know_."

"You do, right? You … ate … him?"

"Oh, gross," Stiles whines. "I'm not a cannibal, okay? I don't … anyway, what are you even talking about? I don't know what you mean! You're crazy. Please let me out of this car."

"The way you were in the bakery. I sensed you, or more like I _didn't_ sense you, which is how I knew and…" she trails off, her fingers flexing again. She sneaks a glance at him, winces and looks away. "That thing you keep doing, stroking your thumb against your left wrist like that? Aiden used to do that. It was …"

"That's not conclusive," Stiles says, snatching his hand away from wrist. He hadn't even realized he'd been doing that. When had he started doing that? "I'm sure lots of people do that."

She huffs, cuts the car sharply to the right and speeds up before bringing them to an abrupt halt and turning the engine off. They're parked in an empty parking lot. "Cut the crap, okay?" Lydia says. "I'm not trying to out you, or whatever you call it. I want your help. You know what happened to Aiden."

"I really, really don't. It was nice talking to you." He tries to open the door but it's still locked. Stiles rubs his hands through his hair, slumps back against the passenger seat. "Look, I'd appreciate it if you'd open the door."

"Stiles, please. I need your help, okay?"

"Oh yeah? Well I make it a personal rule not to help people who abduct me. Also, were you aware that you were dating a psycho-murderer?" Her mouth drops open and Stiles barrels on, relentless. "I saw that too. He killed his whole pack, him and his brother. His pack, Lydia! That's like, that's like butchering your own family!"

"I know that," she says, quiet. "But you have to understand, they weren't a good pack. The alpha was … it was … they were hurting Ethan and Aiden."

"Nice motive. Still _murder_."

"Look, asshole," Lydia snaps. "Maybe you think you know what you're dealing with here, but I can promise you, you don't."

"I'm in over my head. Okay. Thanks for letting me know. I'll back off. Now let me go."

For a moment she glares, and Stiles thinks she's not going to unlock the door and he prepares to send a text to his dad, bring the entire Sheriff's department down on her head. But then she and, just like that, moves her hand and releases the lock. 

Stiles scrabbles to get the door open, is half-out of the vehicle when she says, "I came here for Derek."

Immediately, Stiles slides back into the car, though he keeps the door open and one leg out of the vehicle. "I _knew_ that bastard was a part of this."

"You know him?" she looks hopeful, which is a strange look on her. Stiles gets the feeling that Lydia Martin isn't in the habit of needing other people.

"Look, I get flashes of things, okay?" he tells her, not sure why he's suddenly relenting. Just that somehow, in his mind, this strange girl who used to date a murderous werewolf, who abducted him and then released him and asked for his help is somehow more trustworthy than Derek. Who is being suspiciously cagey. "The flashes aren't always relevant, and they're not always chronological. If you want my help you need to tell me what's going on. Because I don't just magically know, okay?"

"Okay," she agrees. "But it's a long story. We should…."

"I'm not letting you kidnap me again. Start talking."

"Fine," she snaps. "It's the alphas."

"The alpha of his old pack?"

"No, you idiot. The Alpha Pack. They approached Aiden and his twin brother Ethan a while ago, before I ever met Aiden. The deal was that if they killed their old pack and took their alpha's power, they would have a place in the alpha pack."

"You're telling me that there is a pack of werewolves out there that are all alphas…"

"Yes."

"How does that even work? Does that work? Like, someone has to be the leader, that's how wolves operate. So that means that the others are followers, which means they're essentially betas …"

"Sure, they _act_ like betas, but they have the power of the alpha they killed."

"That's … that's stupid."

"Look, that's not the point. Aiden and his brother killed their pack and joined Deucalion – the head of the alpha pack," Lydia adds hastily as Stiles starts to open his mouth. "But Deucalion is … he's…"

"What? A jackass? A douchewolf?"

"He wasn't satisfied with the pack. I doubt he'll ever be satisfied. He only preys on other werewolves, and people close to whatever pack he's targeted, but…"

"But he's essentially a werewolf mob boss, who periodically decides to slaughter entire packs for no reason. Other than power. …and I guess, a the sick thrill."

"Right," Lydia agrees, though the twist of her mouth suggests she's not impressed with Stiles' cavalier summary. "Aiden was just to grateful to belong somewhere that it didn't bother him. But when I met him, after I found out who Deucalion was and what the pack was doing, I got concerned. We talked and, and Aiden agreed that it wasn't safe. That if the opportunity arose, he'd leave the pack."

"Look, this sounds like a really romantic story of werewolf meets girl, werewolf agrees to stop mass-murdering innocent wolves for girl, but could we fast-forward to the part where you tell me how Derek is involved."

Lydia looks like she would enjoy slapping him, but after a second she regains her composure enough to say, "Right," sharply enough that Stiles feels like he's been slapped, even if she hasn't touched him. " _Anyway_ ," she continues. "Derek was courting the alpha pack. Or, maybe it was the other way around. Deucalion was planning to make a move on the O'Flannery pack, and Derek was the inside man that Deucalion had chosen. That's how we met. I found out he had connections to the New York Police and we made a deal: I'd agree not to expose him to Deucalion, and _he'd_ agree to put Ethan and Aiden into witness protection."

"Wow," Stiles says, holding up a hand. "Wow, wow. Let me process this. So, Derek was actually _undercover_."

"Or so I thought," Lydia says with a shrug. "After I approached him about it he turned around and came clean to Deucalion. I don't know how he managed it, but it actually made them closer. I lost my bargaining chip."

"Oh my god!" Stiles snarls. "Just get to the point!"

"The _point_ is, Ethan mysteriously disappeared not long after. Deucalion was convinced that he turned State's evidence but no one could prove anything, there was no sign of him anywhere. It was obvious enough that the Alpha pack didn't kill him, but it doesn't make sense that he went to the police. Why wouldn't Aiden have gone with him?"

"Uh, maybe because your honey boo boo was a homicidal maniac at heart?"

"He _wasn't_ ," Lydia barks, and then she says it again, softer. "It doesn't matter though, because after Ethan disappeared Aiden refused to leave the pack. He was terrified. Then, a few weeks ago, I had a dream about Aiden, dying."

Stiles blinks. "You what now?"

"I'm a banshee," she explains. "It means I'm attuned to death. It's how I could tell what you are. At first, I get dreams about someone dying, and then it starts affecting me when I'm awake. I hear sounds, smell things … they're clues. Warnings. It ends when I scream, or maybe it's more accurate to say, I scream when it ends. When the person is dead."

"So you predicted Aiden dying."

"That's why we left New York. I told him and he tried to run and said to him, that he wasn't going anywhere without me. We were heading north, hoping to cross the border into Canada because Deucalion has some powerful enemies up there, but then I started dreaming of Ethan. That's what brought us here."

"So, you think Ethan is here?"

"I don't know where Ethan is. But the dreams involved Derek, and it wasn't all that hard to find where he'd gone. Aiden refused to leave if his brother was in danger, and he made me promise that, whatever happened, I had to find Ethan and make sure Deucalion didn't get to him."

"So, you know where Derek is, obviously, because you followed him here. What do you need me for?"

Lydia grins, it's sharp and sly. "You're my insurance. So far Deucalion just knows me as the dumb girlfriend, but I've been collecting evidence of my own. I can't be sure where Derek's loyalties lie, Aiden never told me much about him, and we didn't talk all that much, except for that time I threatened him and he pulled the rug out from under me somehow. So, here I am making nice with the Sheriff's kid, and if Derek doesn't want to play, you're my leverage."

"Ha!" Stiles crows. "If you think Derek and I have forged anything beyond a mutual suspicion of each other, you're fooling yourself."

Her smile is sort of threatening. "Whatever you say, sweetheart," she says. "Besides, even if he doesn't care about you, he'll care about his job. Coming clean to Deucalion about his job has turned him into an asset for the pack, but if Derek isn't employed with the police? If he doesn't have access to all that useful information that could mean the difference between success or failure for Deucalion? Well, then he's just a beta without a pack."

…………………………………………………….

Lydia drops him off on the curb outside of his apartment. Stiles doesn't really know what to do beyond go upstairs, have a long shower and then maybe collapse in front of the television and try to will reality as far from himself as possible.

It's clear that Lydia hasn't told him everything about her own plans. Obviously she means to confront Derek about Ethan Greene's location, but it can't be that simple. Even if she threatens to, what, hurt Stiles? Is that even possible? Since he's become a zombie Stiles has been stabbed, blown up and shot and he's been fine; Isaac performed open-heart surgery on him in the morgue to fish the bullet out and Stiles didn't even need anesthetic. 

She's smart, though. That much was perfectly clear to Stiles, which makes him wonder why she bothered to seek him out and talk to him at all.

At least, he wonders that until he steps out of his shower, towel wrapped around his hips to find Scott offering Derek a beer from their fridge. "Hey dude, you’ve got company!" Scott beams.

"Uh, hey. Hey," Stiles repeats, after clearing his throat. "Scott, this is Derek. The new deputy my dad hired."

"Yeah, man, I know!" Scott answers, still grinning. "That's why I let him in."

"Great, that's … so great," Stiles says. "Well, I'm naked. So … I'm gonna you know, go take care of that …" He darts into his room, pulls on the first things that he can see, which happens to be a pair of old sweat pants he snatches off the floor and a hoody that hanging out of a drawer.

"You're still alive!" he blurts when he steps out of his room to find Scott still sitting in the living room. "Uh," he says, and then turns his attention from Scott to Derek and corrects, "I mean here. In my home. You … deputy, are here…still."

'Dude," Scott mouths at him, the 'wtf' evident in the scrunch of his face.

'I don't know!' Stiles mimes back, shrugging.

"I'm gonna let you two talk," Scott says casually, throwing an unsubtle wink and a thumbs up in Stiles' direction as he goes to his room. Before he closes the door, Scott mouthes 'ten out of ten! Go you!' and gives another thumbs up.

"Oh my god," Stiles whispers back. Smacks a hand over his face when he turns around and realizes that Derek watches every bit of that whole thing. "Yeah so that's Scott. He's … very special."

Derek stares at Scott's closed door for a moment, then at Stiles. "How do you know Lydia Martin?"

"I don't know her!" Stiles blurts. "I mean," he backtracks swiftly. "Lydia who? What? … what are you talking about."

Derek stands easily from the sofa, sets his beer on the table and walk over to the hooks by the front door, plucking Stiles' jacket up and raising both of his eyebrows. "Lydia. Martin."

"Dude!" Stiles shouts, marching over to snatch his coat out of Derek's hand. "I have a right to privacy, Mr. Snoopwolf. Stop sniffing my shit … I mean, stuff. Stop … stop smelling me."

"Stiles!"

"Look, I don't know her, okay? I bumped into her at a coffee shop when Isaac and I were out for lunch. She overheard I was the sheriff's kid and asked if I knew you. That's it."

"What did you tell her?"

"Nothing."

Derek raises his eyebrows skeptically, but Stiles barrels on. "What could I tell her? It's not like we know each other here, Derek. We're not exactly friends. I just thought maybe she could help with the case."

"So you did talk to her."

"Only a little!" Stiles insists. "And, for the record, it was mostly her doing the talking, okay? I just listened and hoped maybe she'd say something that might be useful to us."

"Not _'us,'_ Stiles," Derek corrects. "I told you to stay away from this one. You'll get hurt."

"Fine! Is that all?"

Derek steps forward until he's only a foot away from Stiles. "No," he says. "Why were you talking to my old partner?"

That might be a little harder to explain. Stiles goes with, "I was…curious?" and keeps his fingers crossed.

Again Derek stares at him for an uncomfortably intense moment. Stiles wonders how transparent he is, if maybe Derek can tell that Stiles is lying. But after a moment Derek says, "You can ask me. If there's something you want to know."

"Noted." He can't exactly ask Derek if he's secretly working for a werewolf mob boss. Even if Derek answered him Stiles wouldn't believe him.

"Have you had any other visions?"

"Nope!" Stiles lies, trying to look as innocent as possible. "No visions. It's been vision-free over here…"

Derek steps away after a moment, turns to the door. "Sorry for disrupting your evening," he says. "Stay away from Lydia Martin. I don't need your help on this case."

…………………………………………………….

"So, you can't tell me that wasn't suspicious behavior," Stiles says the next day, after he finishes recounting the entire thing to Isaac.

"Have you finished stitching up Mr. Jenkins?"

"Just about. I'll put the last stitch in if you admit that you're starting to think that I have a point about Derek."

"You can't hold Mr. Jenkins hostage, Stiles. That's so immature. He's got family waiting to bury him."

Stiles is wearing a mask so he can't stick out his tongue, so he settles for making a rude noise and getting back to work. "I'll accept your silence on the matter as agreement."

"You know what I can't help thinking about?" Isaac asks.

"What?"

"I can't help thinking about that time when you ate the brain of a hit man. Remember that?"

Stiles glances up from his suturing. "Yeah. That dude that Max Rager hired in order to keep the fact that they'd accidentally invented zombie-juice secret."

"Yes, that hit man."

Stiles scrunches his face. "What's you're point?"

"My point is, you started acting distant to the extreme."

"Uh, _excuse you!_ I was high on the brains of a sociopath! I think I did alright."

"Yes. You almost let me get eaten by a zombie while I was trying to collect samples."

"But I _didn't_ ," Stiles points out. "Much to my later regret. I still don't get where you're going with this."

Isaac rolls his eyes so hard that Stiles is honestly surprised they don't just fall right out of the guy's head. "Where I'm _going_ with this is, you're suspicious and paranoid even on your best day. Maybe this is all just … a side-effect."

"Huh." Stiles transfers the body onto the slab and the. pushes the cold-storage drawer closed. "So you're saying that maybe Aiden was suspicious and paranoid, and that's the only reason to think that Derek might be dirty?" he asks as he heads to the sink to wash up.

"Just a thought."

"And the whole thing with Lydia? And at my apartment?"

Isaac ruffles his own hair with a hand."Okay, well, that was a little suspicious but …"

Smirking, Stiles says, " _But_ …"

He knows he's won the moment Isaac sighs. "I really hate encouraging your paranoia."

"It's not paranoia if the guy is legitimately shady as fuck."

…………………………………………………….

It's also not paranoia if there is legitimately someone out to get you, which it turns out there is. Stiles walks to his Jeep at the end of the day with the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. There's a woman leaning against the building on the opposite side of the road, he keeps glances in her direction because he's mentally preparing his description for the sketch artist. Her hair is long and dark and her smile is predatory and she won't stop staring at him the whole time it takes him to get into his Jeep. Even when he pulls out of the parking lot, he checks the mirror and she's still staring. A least she doesn't chase him.

There's a big guy standing close to the entrance of Stiles' apartment when he gets home and that guy stares just as much as the woman had, but doesn't make a move either. "Fucking blink," Stiles mutters to himself as he hurries inside.

"Hey man," Scott greets when Stiles scampers into the apartment. He must have just gotten home because he's in the middle of exchanging his work clothes for loungewear. "What are you doing?" he tacks on when Stiles brushes passed him, making a beeline to the window.

"Have you noticed any alphas hanging around?" Stiles asks as he peaks through the curtains.

"Alphas like alpha _werewolves_?" 

Stiles makes a face, 'obviously'. Scott makes a face back, 'what have you been smoking'. "Have you seen any or not?"

"No, dude. You know Beacon Hills is sort of a pack-neutral place. We don't really have any alphas that stick around."

"Yeah." Stiles takes another look out the window, the guy hanging out across the street stares up at him, teeth glinting in the glow of a streetlight.

…………………………………………………….

It's a complete fluke that when he stumbles into the kitchen the next morning he finds Scott standing by the open fridge, a jar of peanut butter in one hand and his wolfy-claws out en force.

"What are you—" doing. Stiles tries to ask this but in the middle of the sentence his gaze shifts from Scott's deer-in-the-headlights look to the peanut butter to the claws and then his vision narrows, shifts, and he's somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere else happens to be on the hard cement floor of some sort of industrial building. He's gagging on a mouthful of blood, staring up at a bunch of red glowing eyes and everything hurts. _Everything_. Stiles had always sort of figured that was more of a hyperbolic statement and yet.

"Tell me where he is," someone is growling in his ear.

Stiles has to spit the blood out of his mouth to make room for his answer, which is, "Screw you."

This makes whoever's whispering sweet menacing nothings into his ear chuckle, and then something jabs into the back of his neck and Stiles thinks, "Oh fuck" and then he's seeing something else, a vision in a vision. There's a guy standing in a doorway, Aiden by the looks of it or …

No that wouldn't be right, because _Stiles_ is Aiden right now. That has to be Ethan.

Ethan, looking suspicious and nervous but opening his door anyway. Ethan's apartment number, 62, and his apartment: a generic looking brown brick box but then Stiles is looking at the address on a crumpled piece of paper, written out in fluid, swooping handwriting. He sees Lydia jotting the words onto the paper, handing it over. He sees Lydia stepping out of a suburban house that Stiles knows is on Ridgewood Crescent, she hops into her blue hybrid, waves at him, blow a kiss.

Then Ethan again, looking angry, shouting, "Dammit, Aiden!" and throwing a plate into the kitchen sink, shattering it.

The stabbing thing, whatever it is, is torn out from the back of Stiles' neck and he gasps. That creepy voice says, "Thank-you very much," and then, to the red eyes milling around, "Finish him off."

"Ethan," Stiles gasps, and Scott's looking at him weird.

"Who's Ethan?" 

"I've … I've gotta go, Scottie!" he says, already heading for the door, stuffing his feet into the nearest pair of shoes and grabbing a jacket.

"But you're still in your pajamas!" Scott shouts at his back, but Stiles isn't listening.

…………………………………………………….

It doesn't occur to Stiles that he's literally just rolled out of bed, hasn't brushed his hair or his teeth, hasn't even washed his face. He's in an oversized ratty shirt and his sleep pants, with Scott's red rubber raincoat overtop. At least he's managed to put his shoes on the correct feet, but only one of them is his. His laces are untied. 

None of this registers until he's already tumbled out of his Jeep, seen Derek on his way up the steps to the Sheriff's station, and attempted to attract the werewolf's attention via excessive flailing, while shouting, "The alpha's know where Ethan is!"

"Stiles, what?" Derek asks, at first stunned by Stiles' presence in the street, then by his appearance. Stiles can tell the moment what he's said finally registers because the man's expression shifts, turns serious. He's suddenly on the sidewalk right beside Stiles, gripping Stiles' arm to take him over to the side of the building.

"I told you to stay out of this."

"Yeah, which is why I didn't," Stiles explains. "But that doesn't matter, I had a vision. Aiden knew where Ethan was and just before they killed him one of the alpha's stabbed his neck or something and got this, like, download of his memories. He knows everything."

"How do you know about Ethan?"

"I have visions, Derek," Stiles huffs. "I had a vision of you hanging out with a bunch of werewolf mobsters, which is why I didn't tell you that I was sort of already on the case, even if you didn't want me to be."

Derek's jaw clenches but he doesn't say anything for a second. "We moved Ethan as soon as he told us that he'd seen his brother."

"That's probably why he isn't dead yet," Stiles says. "But unless you shipped him out of the country to like, Greenland or something, then they're still coming. Lydia's the one who tracked him down. Probably she could do it again, and they know where she is, too so…"

"Shit," Derek curses, and then rushes up the steps into the station.

"You're welcome!" Stiles calls at the man's back, waving an arm

"Put some damned clothes on!" Derek tells him before he disappears inside.

…………………………………………………….

Stiles doesn't know how all of that ends because no one is saying anything important on the police scanner, it's just business as usual, apparently. He drives back to his apartment, gets washed and changed and then goes into work.

"You're late," Isaac informs him

"I was saving lives, Isaac."

"You're such a pain in the ass, Stilinski." 

He spends the day in the morgue, still not knowing if the alphas were ever caught, if Ethan and Lydia are alive. When he gets home Scott's left a post-it note on the fridge inquiring into his mental health, there's a post-script that informs Stiles that Scott's staying over at Kira's tonight. There's a doodled happy-face in the bottom corner. His best friend is an idiot.

At ten o'clock there's a knock on the door, and Stiles has been practically climbing the walls. He already tried to pump his dad for information but the man knows him far too well at this point and wouldn't say anything helpful. So Stiles sort of flies at the door, just because he's bored and fretting uselessly. He's not good with not knowing what's happening.

Derek is standing there, looking a little awkward. "Can we talk?"

Stiles pushes the door open wider, steps aside. "You want anything? Soda, juice? Water?"

Derek shakes his head. "When I asked you if you had met Lydia Martin you told me you hadn't."

"Uh, you didn't ask me that, ever. You smelled my clothes and growled at me a lot, and then made vaguely menacing comments about my personal safety." Derek huffs, but Stiles cuts off the argument it looks like the man is gearing-up to make by asking, "Is everyone okay?"

Nodding, Derek says, "We've arrested the alphas. Between Miss Martin and the information Ethan has already given us, we have a good case."

"That's," Stiles scratches his cheek, shrugs. "That's good."

"You should have told me. When you had the first vision, you should have come straight to me."

Stiles' initial inclination is to be obstinate, because that's what he's good. Somewhere between formulating an adequately belligerent response, he ends up changes tracts and what he says is, "I know it's hard to understand but this is my town. The people who live here? I've pretty much known them since I was a kid. Those deputies you work with? Your boss? Those are my people. Half of them I've known my whole life. They came to family dinners at my house; they babysat me when my dad was working a shift. They help me with my homework. I would rather die than let anything happen to any one of them."

Stiles shrugs. "You're pissed that I didn't trust you, I get it. Okay? But the visions I get aren't just snippets that I watch like someone else's home movie. I feel _every second_ of it, right down to minute details. I didn't just _watch_ you beat Aiden up, I _felt_ you kicking _me_. You were hurting _me_. And I couldn't trust that you weren't capable of hurting other people, too. People I _care_ about."

Derek paces away, rubbing a hand through his hair. When he turns back to Stiles the anger has left him. "I spent a year undercover with the alphas. Do you know what it's like, spending that amount of time pretending to be something you're not?"

Stiles swallows thickly. "I can imagine it was difficult."

Derek scoffs. "Yeah. Difficult. I didn't join the force to be one of the bad guys, Stiles. That suspension Braeden told you about was part of my cover. The idea was a few black marks on my police record would make it credible when I approached the alphas. It worked. But after that length of time … playing the part of a dirty cop, or a mindless beta eager to slaughter his own pack to gain power …" he cringes, looks away. "It made it difficult for people to trust me again. Even Braeden." He shrugs. "That's why I requested a transfer. That's the reason why I left supernatural crimes and New York."

"A fresh start," Stiles agrees. "I get it."

"Hey," he calls, when Derek steps toward the door. "If it helps, I went to dad first. It was right after the vision of you … anyway, I told him what I thought and he stuck by you. I wanted him to look into you and he … well, he trusted you and he respected your privacy, despite everything."

Derek nods, smiles. "Thanks." He opens the door and then hesitates. "In the future if you ever have another vision and I show up in it? You can come and talk to me. Whatever it is."

Stiles grins. "Cross my heart and hope to die."


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles has never understood Scott's morning job ritual because werewolves are always perfectly healthy. It's their thing. Does Scott think he can jog for an hour and get _more_ fit? That's impossible. They've had this argument more than once but Scott is adamant, he likes to run. Stiles points out that nobody _'likes'_ running, which leads to Scott insisting that _he_ does. Stiles says that's more supernatural than Scott's lycanthropy and Scott goes out on his run anyway, despite a bleary-eyed Stiles standing and judging at him, clutching a cup of coffee like it's his ticket to sanity because it is. Exactly that.

They've had arguments about Stiles insisting he _needs_ his caffeine, too, despite being a zombie and Isaac having proven that caffeine doesn't have the same effect it does on Stiles that it did before the boat party.

He and Scott bicker a lot, actually. Mostly it's affectionate.

There's work for him to do at the morgue even though he's over an hour early. Isaac spares him a glance, opens his mouth to start chattering and then snaps it closed again. "Take this over," he says, gesturing to the body lying on the slab, and Stiles hastily exchanges his outerwear for his lab coat, snaps his gloves on and hops-to.

He keeps himself busy, stops only for lunch and Isaac has to chase him off at the end of the day. "See you at your dad's later!" 

"What? No! Why are _you_ going to be there?"

Isaac frowns. "Your dad invited me. It's a party."

"I don't get what we're celebrating," Stiles mutters. "It was one of the most horrible moments of my entire life."

"Yeah, which you _survived_."

"That's arguable." Isaac rolls his eyes but refuses to continue the argument, which is fine, because Stiles suddenly wants nothing more than to get out of the morgue.

It's not really the anniversary of the boat party, because when that day had rolled around Stiles had adamantly refused to get out of bed, and his dad had agreed that he could decide what was best for him, what would help him deal with that day. But it was conditional on Stiles agreeing to allow the people who care about him to throw a party to recognize what had happened to Stiles, like a secondary zombie-related birthday. "And," his dad had said. "To celebrate how all of us have come through this together." At the time, it hadn't sounded that horrible, is the thing.

Stiles changes into an old hoody that he stole from his dad back in high school, and a pair of sweat pants, drags his blanket from his room and curls up at the end of the couch, switching on a movie.

That's exactly where Scott finds him when he gets home from work a half hour later. "Oh dude, did you start the pity party without me?"

"Shut up," Stiles mumbles. "It's not a pity party. I'm tired, and I think I might be coming down with something. Maybe I shouldn't go out tonight. Tell my dad I'm sorry and I'll make it up to him."

Scott collapses onto the couch, squashing Stiles' curled up legs beneath his butt. "You're watching _Return of the Living Dead_. Dude, you are the _least_ subtle person I know." He starts poking Stiles through the blanket. "Come on, get up. You've got to get changed or we'll be late."

Stiles kicks back in retaliation half-heartedly. "You're not listening. I can't go. I'm sick."

"You don't get sick, Stiles. Come on."

Stiles doesn't budge until Scott turns off the TV and then absconds with the remote. Stiles could go up and turn his movie back on manually, but that sounds like too much work. The sad reality is, if he doesn't get changed and go over to his dad's house, then his dad will just bring the 'party' to the apartment. Stiles is fairly certain there is no escape from this, so he gives-in.

'Party' probably isn't the right term. It had started out as his dad pretending that he had an appointment or something and couldn't make their usual Thursday night dinner thing, and could they reschedule for Tuesday. Stiles had seen right through that, of course, but he'd let it slide.

Back when Stiles was eleven and his mom had just died, the Stilinski men had coped with her loss mostly in their own ways, his dad by burying himself in work and Stiles by burying himself in the internet, and in mischief. It had taken them years before they'd been able to actually sit down and talk to each other about Claudia, even though they would visit her grave together frequently.

Maybe Stiles' dad had realized that grief was more manageable when it was shared, or maybe almost losing Stiles had made him want to hold on all the more. Either way, Stiles can't really deny his dad anything, even if it is celebrating his (must belated) zombie birthday.

At least there aren't any balloons outside of his house when they pull up. He'd made both Scott and his dad promise to keep it small, which is why Stiles is put out to realize that there are an unsettling number of cars out front. "Scott, I told you…"

"Don't worry, buddy," Scott says. "You know everyone."

"That's not … I know a lot of people! That doesn't mean I want them in the same place at the same time! This was supposed to be a quiet night, dude."

"Ttrust me."

It's not as bad as it could be. Scott ushers him through his own front door and his dad is waiting for him, smiling a wincing smile like he knows this isn't what Stiles had in mind. He crushes the wind out of Stiles' lungs and then passes him over to Jordan who smiles a little brighter, a little more sincerely. 

"Hey," Stiles says, and lets himself be dragged into a hug.

"Sorry about this," Jordan whispers. "I tried to rein Scott in but …"

"I know," Stiles says, pats Jordan's back and then lets him go.

Kira's there with a plate of cookies. "I'm sorry in advance," she says the moment they make eye contact. "I'm like, the worst person to have around at awkward parties, I always put my foot in my mouth … oh my god! Like I just did! I mean, this isn't awkward it's just that Scott told me not to mention the whole zombie thing and … shit! I mean," she glances at the Sheriff. "I mean, shoot."

"Kira, breathe," Jordan advises, his blue eyes bright with laughter. 

"Kira!" Scott blurts, looking horrified.

Isaac is standing on the bottom step of the stairs, grinning. "This is amazing."

"It's fine," Stiles assures her. 

She looks chagrined, stuffs a cookie in her mouth and chew hastily. "Sorry." 

It might be a small group but it's the most people that Stiles has been around in a long time. It feels overwhelming and kind of good. It also feels cheerful, which Stiles wasn't expecting. Before the boat party everything had been straightforward and uncomplicated. It had been shiny with possibilities. Mostly what Stiles remembers from after the boat party involved a lot of anxiety, depression and anger. Yet here he is, a year and a few months out and he's still got all the people he cares about. He's still got a good future, he's still got his shit together. Mostly. Sort of. 

"Dinner's ready!" Kira chirps, calling them in from where they've been settled in the living room. They take their seats around the table, waiting as Scott shuttles out the meal wearing an apron and the oven-mitts Stiles got his dad for Father's Day a few years ago. 

"The famous McCall family lasagna," Jordan says as he looks at the steaming serving dish. "It smells delicious, Scott."

"Oh no, dude," Scott says when Stiles reaches for the dish. "I've got yours. Hold on."

He comes back with a pre-sliced piece of lasagna that takes-up half the space on the plate. There's a little bit of veggies crammed around the edges. "Extra spicy," Scott announces, and winks at Stiles.

The conversation tapers off as they start to eat. Stiles takes his first forkful of the lasagna, trying to conjure the memory of exactly how it used to taste back when he'd sleep over at the McCall house and Melissa would make it. He remembers he loved it. Scott's played around with spices, which means that it actually has flavor, Stiles can actually taste it, and there's something about it. He cocks his head, trying to place exactly what it is and then it hits him: brain. Scott's made a special slice of lasagna for him with ground meat and ground brain, so Stiles can share a meal with everyone.

Except Stiles has never eaten in front of his dad, or Jordan, or Scott, or Kira. 

Not brain, at any rate. 

"Good?" Scott asks and he looks hopeful. He means well, Stiles knows. It's a gesture: we accept you, we still love you, but Stiles feels vaguely nauseous, shoots a guilty look at his dad, wonders if his dad knows what Stiles is sitting here eating. Everyone is looking at him now, and he forces himself to swallow his mouthful. "Yeah," he says. "It's good, Scottie. Thanks."

He used to blush really easily, but ever since his heart rate dropped to about ten beats per minute Stiles suspects he doesn't have the necessary circulation to achieve that. It's a good thing, because it means one less way for people to detect his mortification. 

Scott's still watching him so Stiles takes another mouthful of food, tells himself he's being melodramatic, tells himself that it's been over a year, he has to accept it. It's not like he doesn't keep Tupperware containers of brain in their freezer at the apartment. It's not like Isaac isn't the one to pack the brain into the Tupperware for him.

The theme song for CSI starts playing and when everyone glances up from their food Stiles squirms to free his phone from his pocket. "Sorry, sorry!" he says when his dad points at him. "No phones at the table, I know, but it's Derek."

"Why is Derek's ringtone the theme song for CSI?" Scott asks at the same time that Jordan says, "Should I be concerned that Derek's ringtone is the theme song for CSI?"

Stiles gets up from the table, pressing his free hand against his left ear to block the conversation as he answer, "Yo, what's up?"

"Are you busy?" Derek asks.

Stiles glances over his shoulder at the almost empty plates and steps further away from the kitchen. "Depends."

"A body's been found in the woods. There's … not much left. I could use your help."

"Not much left?" Stiles repeats, intrigued despite himself. 

"It's been … eaten."

"Dude!"

Derek sighs. "How many times, Stiles?"

"Sorry, sorry! I meant _'Derek'_. Like, 'Derek, you're bullshitting me.'"

"I'm not bullshitting you. Can you take a look or not?"

"Looking at human remains is my thing!" Stiles pauses. "I mean, not like 'my thing' just … it's my job. You know. Because I'm—"

"Stiles!"

"Sorry! Yes! _Fine!_ "

"I'll pick you up. Are you at your place?"

Stiles sails right passed how easily Derek asks a question like that and explains that he's over at his dad's. When he hangs up he explains to everyone at the table that 'duty calls'. Dinner's pretty much over so he doesn't feel too horrible about ducking out a little early.

"It's your own fault for hiring such an inept deputy," Stiles tells his dad as everyone else starts clearing dishes away. Stiles and the sheriff have both been banned from cleanup, Stiles because it's apparently 'his day' and the sheriff because he's the sheriff.

"I'll have you know that Derek has one of the highest solve-rates in the department."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees. "Thanks _in no small part_ to _me_. You're welcome." 

His dad rolls his eyes like he knows how useless it would be to argue, and settles for pulling Stiles in for a hug. "You take care of yourself, okay kiddo?"

"Course, daddy-o. Don't sweat it."

"I'm glad you're okay," his dad tacks on, quiet.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and squeezes his dad close. "I'm practically invincible now, you know? Don't worry about me."

"Can't help it." His dad gives a ruefully shrug, and then ruffles Stiles' hair, chuckling with Stiles protests and attempts to smooth it back into place. "I mean it, kid. I don't care about anything else, I'm just glad you're here. I'm damn proud of you, too."

"Thanks, dad." 

Derek knocks on the door a few minutes later and looks a little startled to see the number of people bustling around inside the Sheriff's place. "I'm sorry, Sheriff," he says to Stiles' dad. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Stiles didn't tell me that he was at a party."

"It's fine," the sheriff assures, and then nudges Stiles in the direction of the door. "Go on, kiddo. Do your thing."

"Later, pops!" Stiles calls, grabbing Derek by the upper arm and dragging him back out the door.

"You didn't have to leave your party. This could have waited," Derek says as they drive out to the crime scene.

"Crime waits for no one," Stiles replies easily. "It wasn't really a party anyway. More like … a morbid 'mark the date' like three months after-the-after." Derek glances over, quirks an eyebrow in question, and Stiles sighs. "I don't know if you heard about the boat massacre that happened around here?"

Derek glances at him again, but this time there's understanding and a hint of surprise. "You were on that boat?"

"Yup," Stiles says. Derek looks like he's trying to find something to say, so Stiles hastens to add, "It's fine. I don't like talking about it, or thinking about it. It's just a thing, that happened. You know? I'm cool if we never bring it up again. Like, I'd prefer it that way, actually."

Derek presses his lips closed and, a moment later, nods once, sharply.

…………………………………………………….

As it turns out, Derek wasn't kidding when he'd said 'eaten'. He also wasn't exaggerating when he'd said 'not much left'. There's hardly any remains for Stiles to take back to the morgue, even though the cadaver dogs have sniffed out every last piece they could, and Derek did a second pass of the area with his wolfy-nose.

There's no brain matter anywhere. 

Stiles is able to tell Derek that the body is male but they can't ID him without fingerprints since his DNA isn't in the system. There aren't enough teeth to run dental records, and apparently there's not enough evidence out in the woods to make this much of an investigation.

Derek, desperate and not realizing that it's a futile effort, takes Stiles out into the woods hoping to it will trigger a vision. "Anything?" he asks, his tone bland and his face neutral, but Stiles can read in the man's eyes how frustrated he is. How much he doesn't want to just 'let this one go'.

"Sorry," Stiles tells him, and means it right down to his core.

…………………………………………………….

It sticks in his head and won't let him go, despite the fact that there are other bodies, other cases for Stiles to concentrate on at work, Derek has other investigations. The thing is, this is the first time that Derek has asked him for help and Stiles hasn't been able to give it. 

"It had to happen sometime," Isaac tells him.

"Did it, though?"

Isaac rolls his eyes, "Yes! You can't solve every single case by resorting to your zombie-powers, okay? With the weird shit that happens in this freaky little town, there was bound to a case where that wasn't an option, and here it is."

"Okay, so my zombie-powers might be useless, but that doesn't mean we give up!"

"Of course not," Isaac says, exasperated. "We're not 'giving up', I'm just saying. Don't be disappointed if it turns out that we can't solve this one."

Stiles doesn't think he'll be disappointed, he's pretty sure he just feels pissed, and a little bit guilty. Derek asked for his help. Derek needed him, and Stiles couldn't come through, and now there's something living in Beacon Hills that literally gobbles people up, barely leaving anything behind at all.

The good thing is that there's a residue found on the remains, hopefully it's saliva, with any luck Stiles can use it to determine what exactly ate their John Doe. The bite pattern and the sheer carnage has pretty much ruled out animal attack, but maybe it's a crazy mountain lion. More likely, it's a supernatural creature. 

Bolstered by this small break Stiles heads back to the Preserve after work, determined to check the area again in case they missed something. Derek was mostly focused on recovering what he could of the body, and anyway there was so much blood at the scene that Stiles doubts Derek could have smelled anything _else_.

Scratches on the bones indicated that the attack was savage, and that the victim might have struggled. Stiles thinks that this means there might be something helpful lying around, a claw stuck in a tree or something, maybe a tooth came loose during the attack and fell out. CSI probably did their best, but it's not out of the realm of possibility that they missed something, especially given that the crime scene is in the middle of the woods, with pine needles and leaves all over the ground. If that's the case, there's a good chance that Stiles can find it.

He's been doing research, going through various bestiaries and reviewing old lecture notes on the physiology of various supernatural creatures, and there are an unsettling number that have a penchant for making a meal of an unsuspecting humans, there are also several that rely solely on human flesh for food. Stiles has to narrow it down somoehow. Maybe if he can at least figure that out Derek will have some place to start.

That's what he's doing, hunkered close to the ground using his phone as a flashlight to help him search for something, anything that might have been overlooked by the CSI team. So at first he ignores the cracking sound of branches, the telltale noise of movement. It's just the sounds of the forest, because things live here. But then the birds stop chirping and the forest sounds die away and Stiles is not very outdoorsy but he knows that's usually a bad sign.

"Hello?" he calls, because maybe he's psyching himself out over a jogger or something.

No one answers him, though and the forest remains creepily silent. He gets to his feet, lifts his phone so the light hits the trees. He turns a complete circle and there's nothing there, even though there's a prickle on his skin like tells him he's being watched.

When he turns another slow circle the lights reflects off a set of eyes, and Stiles stumbles backward. "I come in peace?" he tries, but there's a hissing sort of growl and he is very very aware that he is alone, standing on the exact spot where some innocent jogger was literally shredded to pieces by something.

"Holy god," Stiles gulps as another pair of eyes join the first, and then another. 

Three against one.

Those are not good odds. They are horrible, miserable, terrifying odds.

Turning on his heel, Stiles starts sprinting back towards where he parked his Jeep. He trips over a log and stumbles a few steps but he keeps running, keeps pushing himself. They're behind him, closing in. When he glances over his shoulder he sees the way their eyes glow in the shadows of the forest, the crouching hunch of their shapes as they move, low to the ground and predatory. He gasps for breath and breaks left, but they flank him. Stiles isn't tiring, exactly, but he's panicking and his state of mind doesn't matter all that much when it's three against one and they're closing in. 

Something snags on his arm and when Stiles glances to the right the girl grins at him, her teeth jagged and menacing. She looks sixteen at most, there's a tear in the sleeve of his hoody and she's reaching her arm out again for him when Stiles switches directions again, back the way he came and then to the left. He has to get to the road, somehow. 

If he can just get to where he left the Jeep. Just get _out_.

He's so frantic he stumbles over nothing at all, hears a snickering laugh from behind him that echoed to his left. He gained a few paces but it's not enough. They're too close, he thinks, he won't make it, and he's going to die here, in the woods. Leave his dad and Scott and everyone and that's all he can think about.

And then the world bleeds red and --

…………………………………………………….

"Jesus, okay," someone is saying. The voice sounds familiar. "It's okay. Breathe, Stiles. Everything is fine. You're _safe_." 

It's Jordan. The moment Stiles realizes it his vision clears. He's standing at the edge of the road, Jordan's cruiser parked, the driver's side door open. Jordan has his hands up, pacifying. Stiles has no idea how he got here, the last thing he remembers is running through the woods.

The woods. The wendigos.

He can't hear anything beyond Jordan's voice and the low rumble of the cruiser's engine. When he glances behind himself into the trees he can't see anything but shadows. No tell-tale glow of eyes. Somehow, he's outrun them. 

Stiles realizes all at once what happened.

He raged-out, went into full-tilt zombie.

"Are you with me?" Jordan is asking him.

It takes a few tries before Stiles remembers how to speak. "We should go." He makes a beeline for the passenger side of the cruiser, settles into the seat while Jordan hesitates, glancing first towards the trees and then around the road. After a moment, he returns to the car. "Drive," Stiles tells him, before the deputy can ask any questions.

"Do you want me to drop you back at the Jeep?" Jordan asks after a moment.

Stiles shakes his head and turns to watch the trees blurring by outside.

"I'm on patrol, saw your car parked by the 'no entrance' sign," Jordan explains. "Given what's been happening in these woods, I thought I should check on you."

Stiles grunts.

"You found them, didn't you? Whoever killed the hiker? Should I go and arrest them? Are they still in the woods?"

Stiles reaches out before he can think, his hand closing around Jordan's wrist. "Let Derek handle it, okay?"

Jordan glances at him, makes a face. "Excuse me?"

"I mean it," Stiles insists. "These …things… they're dangerous. It's Derek's case. Let him take care of it."

Jordan shakes his head. "They can hurt me but not him?"

"He'd heal."

The silence settles over them for a bit and in that time they pass the Jeep and leave the Preserve behind. Jordan keeps driving. "So it's a supernatural creature."

"A wendigo." He glances over at Jordan but the deputy only nods. "That doesn't freak you out?" Jordan doesn't answer. "You weren't scared of me."

Jordan laughs. "Why would I be scared of you, Stiles?"

It's not the first time that Jordan saw him like that, literally out-of-his-mind, with no control over what he was doing. Anything could have happened, Stiles knows, and it's a cold-shock that splashes over him, down his spine. What if he'd tried to eat Jordan? 

The way Jordan looks, though, Stiles knows that the deputy will only say that he trusts Stiles, absolutely, which is crazy. Stiles would like to point out all of the ways that this is a no good, horrible, very bad idea because Stiles is a zombie, and sure so far he's only eaten brains from dead people but what if? _What if?_

Stiles is too tired to argue, so instead he swallows his fear and anger and asks, "What did it look like? I mean … me, what did I look like?"

"The same," Jordan tells him. "You didn't look any different, Stiles. Just … your eyes change. You didn't know?" Stiles knows that his vision bleeds red, but he's not exactly lucid enough to go and check himself out in a mirror. Jordan seems to understand that because he continues, "Your eyes go red, the whites, everything… and your iris looked lighter, almost orange. But that's all."

Stiles isn't sure if he's relieved or not. It's something, at least there's some indication, some warning in case someone comes across him, but what if that's not enough? 

"I'm sorry," he says, and he means for a lot more than just raging-out in front of Jordan, again. Jordan just reaches over and takes Stiles hand.

"You don't have to apologize. I wasn't scared, and you didn't hurt me. You didn't even try to, Stiles." When Stiles doesn’t answer Jordan squeezes his hand. "Do you want me to take you back to your place? Or do you want to go to your dad's?"

"Home's fine, thanks," Stiles tells him.

…………………………………………………….

For all that his venture into the Preserve was a horrible disaster there's good news waiting for Stiles when he gets into work the next day. The residue found on John Doe's remains is saliva, and the chemical imbalances indicate that the attacker is a wendigo.

"But probably not just one," Stiles tells Derek, and when Derek's eyebrows do that thing that indicates he's wondering why Stiles is jumping to this conclusion, Stiles explains his encounter in the woods.

"Three wendigos," Derek says. "And you … outran them?"

"Uh, I was on the track team at college? And I had a head start. Or you know, maybe they were all filled up with Innocent Jogger Guy and weren't hungry. But that's something, right? That helps?"

Derek nods. "I can work with that."

…………………………………………………….

Every now and again Scott starts grumbling about how Stiles is anti-social and needs to start going out again like he used to do. He's convinced that playing third-wheel on Scott's dates with Kira is lots of fun, which is not at all true. Stiles is very happy for his friend, but Scott is one of those horrible relationship-people who has pet names and stares dopily into his SO's eyes, and then starts making out for long intervals. 

The moment Scott starts eyeing him where he's settled onto the their couch, Stiles sends Jordan an SOS text, so five minutes later, when Scott is building toward another argument, Stiles can't mask his maniacal grin when there's a knock.

"Is that Kira?" Scott wonders. "She's early.

"Nope! That's for me," Stiles says. "Bye, Scottie! My anti-social ass is going out!"

"What?" Scott calls. "Really? Dude!!" 

"You are quite literally my hero right now," Stiles says as he clicks his seatbelt into place. "I love him but Scott can be such a nag."

"I know," Jordan says, smiling good-naturedly.

The bar they end up at is pretty quiet for a Friday night, probably because it's so out-of-the-way. They have good beer, which makes Jordan happy, and the bartender is up for a challenge, which Stiles enjoys, because it means they can take a seat at the bar and Stiles can keep requesting weirder and weirder drinks. "You know what this needs? Tabasco!" and the bartender frowns and scoffs and then goes away and mixes spicier and spicier drinks probably hoping to shut Stiles up. Little does he know that Stiles will never shut up, better men have tried and failed.

"I used to give Scott so much shit after he was turned," Stiles admits, snickering over a spicy whiskey concoction that has his taste buds singing.

"Because alcohol doesn't affect werewolves?" Jordan asks.

Stiles points at him. "And now look at me. It's like karma."

"I don't know, Stiles. You seem a little tipsy to me."

"Tipsy," Stiles scoffs, and then makes a sweeping gesture at the bar, which would be a lot more significant if the empty glasses of liquor that Stiles has consumed were still left out for him to gesture to.

Jordan gets what he's saying anyway. "That's still better than nothing at all."

"I s'pose," Stiles mutters.

It's nice to hang out, to talk and joke around like they used to. Things are so familiar with Jordan, so unchanged. If he wanted, Stiles thinks that they could pick up right where they left off. Everyone else went through a period of adjustment, where they had to rethink who Stiles was now that he wasn't really human anymore. Even Stiles' dad sort of went through a weird grieving phase. Maybe Jordan did too, but it was during those few months where Stiles was hiding from him and the rest of the world, or maybe the whole post-breakup thing masked it.

"What's going on with you and Derek?" Jordan asks, startling Stiles.

"What are you talking about?"

"Come on," Jordan says, nudging at him. "I know you, Stiles. You can't fool me. It's obvious you have feelings for him."

"How obvious?" Stiles cries. "Do you think _he_ knows?"

"Derek? Pshaw, no. He might be a good detective but he's pretty much hopeless when it comes to human attraction."

"I've noticed." He takes a long sip of his spicy whiskey concoction. "Are you going to tell him?"

"Me? Why would I tell him. You're the one who likes him."

"It doesn't matter," Stiles decides. "That part of my life is over."

Jordan makes a face. "What part? The part where you get to like people? The part where you get to fall in love?"

Stiles jerks his chin up, defiant. "Yeah. _That_ part."

"This is what I don't get," Jordan admits, quiet. "I mean, I see how after the boat party you needed time to yourself, because you had a lot to work through. And I can even get how it could change things for you…change things with us, even. But it's not like you're alone. There are other supernatural beings out there."

"The key word being 'natural', which this is not. I am _not_ natural. I'm a messed up chemistry experiment. We're not supernatural, we're not in any bestiaries, do you know why? Because we're _not supposed to exist_."

Jordan smiles. "And yet here you are."

"Yeah, here I am. Whoopee. Look at what I have to do to survive, Jordan. Those things that killed that jogger? The wendigos? I'm like them—"

"Don't," Jordan cuts him off. "Be pissed if you want, or bitter, or whatever. But don't try to get me to go along with this anymore. What you are and what they are, those are two different things. You wouldn't do the things that they do, not ever. If you want to argue with me then fine, but you can't convince on this point."

Stiles huffs, indignant. "That's because _you're an idiot_."

"Maybe I am. But it doesn't matter because you can't chase me away. You've been trying for a long time, but I'm still here and I'm your _friend_ , and that won't change. And your dad's standing by you, and Scott and Kira and Isaac. We're all here, Stiles, _despite your best efforts_."

"Fuck," Stiles half-hisses and half-sobs, rubbing his hands over his face. "Fuck, Jordan."

"I know." Jordan circles an arm around Stiles' shoulders, drawing him close. "It's about time you realized that we all love you."

"Okay, I give up," Stiles moans after a while, head tucked under Jordan's chin. "Let's go elope."

That makes the other man laugh. "As much as I'd love to do that, we had our moment. We can't turn back the clock."

Stiles sighs. "We would have been awesome. Our marriage would have kicked all other marriages in the butt."

"I don't think it's a competition, but yeah. It would have." He offers his pinky finger, "Friends."

"Fine," Stiles puffs, hooking his pinky with Jordan's, making a pact the way they used to. "But only 'cause you made me."

"Since I've got you here," Jordan adds, tightening the hold his pinky has on Stiles'. "Maybe consider talking to Derek. I get the feeling he feels the same way about you."

"Mostly I want to punch him in his perfect face."

"That's what I'm saying, I think the feelings' mutual." Jordan laughs when Stiles smacks his arm. He's entirely remorseless. "If it's because you're not ready, then that's fine. But don't just give up on love because you think you have to."

"I'll try," Stiles says, and Jordan releases his pinky, and then kisses him, quick and chaste on the lips. "Dude, you don't know where I've been."

Jordan snorts. "Yeah, I do."

…………………………………………………….

Derek doesn't drop by the morgue and he doesn't call to let Stiles know about how the case is developing, but Stiles doesn't have much time to worry about it because a body comes in that's been nearly decapitated by a laser-cut wire and Stiles doesn't have much time to dwell.

"Have you noticed we've been busier down here lately?" Isaac wonders as they eye the corpse, wondering if it would be easier to cut the last few tendons that are tethering the head to the body or if they should just get on with the autopsy.

Stiles finishes setting out their tools and glances up. "I …guess?"

"God, since you started working with Derek you've been so distracted."

"Oh, no. I can't take this from you, too!"

"What?" Isaac asks. "I just meant that going out in the field every so often has been good for you. Putting your zombie mojo to work for the good of all. Why, what did you mean?"

"Nothing," Stiles lies. "Carry on."

…………………………………………………….

By the end of the week there's another body, this one a high school kid, who's been garroted with a thermal wire and Stiles and Isaac both agree that this is looking like it's going to be an ongoing thing. Beacon Hills doesn't get a lot of serial killers; mostly the murders are a crime of passion or revenge-spree sort of deal, with a few human sacrifices and cannibalistic murderers thrown in. 

Serial killers though, people who kill again and again because it's just their thing, that's a little less common, and Stiles isn't so much like the thermal wire thing. It looks like a painful way to go.

"How would you prefer to be murdered?" Isaac asks him as they analyze another body, this one stabbed by something or other, neither Isaac nor Stiles can agree on exactly what yet.

"I don't have many options left anymore. Getting shot in the head, that's pretty much what it'll take," Stiles points out.

"No, obviously," Isaac says, rolling his eyes. "But I mean if you could pick."

"I'd pick _not to be murdered_ , obviously."

"You're no fun," Isaac grumbles.

…………………………………………………….

The pinnacle of their already disturbingly busy week comes when Jordan answers a call about a disturbance at home and finds five people brutally slaughtered, blood everywhere. There's one survivor, a high school kid who's covered in gore and badly beat up. He's understandably hysterical and the EMTs have to sedate him in order to get him into the ambulance. It's pretty much all hands on deck.

When Isaac and Stiles arrive at the house Jordan's waiting for them on the front steps. He waves at them, like he's been waiting to make sure they didn't miss the place. Not like that would even be possible because there are three cruisers out front with lights flashing, and yellow crime scene tape demarking the entire property line. The neighbors are all standing around outside watching like what's happening here is better than anything on TV.

"It's pretty grim in there," Jordan tells them as they approach.

"Says the deputy to the Medical Examiners," Isaac scoffs.

Jordan tips his head in agreement, then shrugs and adds, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Stiles braces himself, but outside of the blood, which is practically everywhere, pooling on the hardwood and smeared on the walls and splattered across the sofa, the bodies are in surprisingly good conditioning. Considering they've been brutally assaulted by what might be some sort of hatchet or something.

Stiles surveys the first two bodies, the two older victims, Mr. and Mrs. Wolcott. "I've seen worse," he says as he pulls on his plastic gloves.

"See, that bothers me," Jordan teases. Stiles sticks his tongue at him and then gets to work.

The Wolcott's eldest son is in the kitchen, there are two teenagers upstairs, a boy and a girl. "What is it?" Isaac asks him as they stand in the hallway where the girl is lying. It looks like she'd been running for the front door.

"Just," Stiles says, frowning. "There's something familiar about her."

"Huh." Isaac squints at her but that doesn't seem to do him much good. He shrugs. "Maybe you passed her at the grocery store, or when you were both at the movies or something."

"No." Stiles thinks he knows, there's something tickling at the edge of his memory. 

"Something wrong?" Jordan asks.

"Just a sec." Stiles grabs his mini flashlight from his pocket, leans in close so he can gently lift the girl's eyelid. She has blue eyes. They turn a milky silver color when the flashlight strikes them, reflecting the light. "Oh crap."

"What?" Isaac wonders, already reaching out with his flashlight to do his own test.

"Were the Wolcott's registered as anything?" Stiles wonders.

Jordan checks through his notebook but shakes his head. "Human, apparently. Why? What is it?" 

"When I was in the woods, I was chased by three people. Their eyes reflected the light, but not like a werewolf's eyes. Look," Stiles says, nods at Isaac who repeats the test for Jordan to see.

Jordan frowns. "You think the Wolcott kids were wendigos?"

"Or the whole family is," Stiles finishes. "Or maybe they have some freaky eye disease that I've never seen or heard of. I don't know. We can't know until we test their saliva, and even then, we won't be able to confirm that they're the same wendigos that killed our jogging John Doe until we do a DNA match."

"Innocent until proven guilty, deputy," Isaac teases.

Jordan's mouth purses. "Right now the only surviving Wolcott kid is en route to the hospital. If we need security measures in place to protect any doctors or nurses who will try to help him, I want to know now."

Isaac and Stiles share a look. Stiles nods to Jordan "Do it."

Isaac shrugs. "Being safe never hurt anyone."

…………………………………………………….

Jordan sends a car over to check on Sean Wolcott. "One car?" Stiles asks as he and Isaac finish up. The last body is being loaded into the van. "One car should be enough, right? Do you think it's enough?"

"Relax," Jordan tells him. "It's one car that contains a werewolf deputy. It'll be fine."

"Do you think it's Derek?" Stiles wonders as he and Isaac head back to their car. "Derek's going over there?"

"Why are you freaking out about this?" Isaac asks.

"Hospitals are big and crowded. There's a lot of people who are basically incapacitated. They can't run away." Melissa McCall is a nurse at Beacon Hills Memorial. She's Scott's mom but Stiles has known her since he was in grade school, hell, she was there for him when his own mom passed. She's basically his second mom at this point.

"We're not even sure if Sean Wolcott is a wendigo. It's a precaution only," Isaac tells him, placating.

"Yeah, and our luck's pretty good, right?" If there's a deputy standing guard out front of Sean Wolcott's room then the hospital staff will get nervous, probably Melissa will go and volunteer to take over that room so that someone else who doesn't feel comfortable won't have to. If Sean turns out to be a crazy human-eating kid then …

"Shit, Stilinski, get it together!" Isaac snaps at him. "Just go over there, for Christ's sake!"

"What? I'm working."

"Yeah, and you'll be totally useless until you get this stupid bug out of your head. Go over, visit Mrs. McCall; make sure there are guards on Wolcott's door, whatever. We're not going to get to any of these bodies tonight anyway."

"Do you think so?"

Isaac stares at him pointedly, then brings the car to a stop and look pointedly out the window. Stiles realizes that they're stopped out front of the hospital. "You're going to have to hitch a ride from someone else, because I'm not picking you up."

"Thanks!"

He doesn't know what his presence will accomplish, but Stiles has long ago accepted this part of himself. He's a worrier, and somehow, no matter what the trouble is that someone is facing, he remains convinced that his presence helps. If he hadn't hung-out at the hospital whenever he could then his mom would have been alone when she died. And after she'd gone, someone had to take the bottle of Jack away from his dad and hidden it? 

But it's more than that, too. People thought he was crazy when his best friend became a werewolf and started hanging out with other werewolves. There was a time when Scott had sort of appointed himself the town guardian because he lived so close to the Nemeton. So he and a bunch of betas from the town over would run around, sticking their noses into things that were really the sheriff's problem, and Stiles always _always_ went with them. He's pretty much heard every possible variation of 'You're going to get yourself killed' that there is. 

But the thing is, he didn't. 

He got knocked around some, sure, but the wolves never had to sit around and babysit him. And because he was there, and not listening to the story after it had already happened, or eavesdropping over the police scanner, he could do things like break lines of mountain ash even though he'd only ever seen mountain ash in books before and had only the vaguest sense of how to break the line. He could spot tripwires that the wolves would have just gone and barreled into, or picklocks instead of having to destroy property.

When he rushes up to the nurses' desk Melissa isn't there, but he's directed down the hall to Sean Wolcott's room and told that the kid hasn't woken up yet.

Sean's room is at the end of the hall. "Hey, Astin," Stiles greets the deputy on duty. "Astin?" Astin is slumped in his chair and totally ignoring Stiles, which is weird because the guy's a chatterbox. People would actually clear out the break room whenever Astin took his lunch and Stiles happened to be visiting because they have a tendency to drive everyone crazy.

Bracing himself, Stiles jogs the rest of the distance and the only reason he doesn't stop and stare, or freak out or panic when he realizes that Astin isn't answering because he's _dead_ is because now that he's closer to the door Stiles can hear the sounds of a struggle coming from Sean Wolcott's room. Something growls. Stiles really hopes it’s Derek.

When he pushes into the room his brain takes a moment to process the seen. He was prepared for traumatized teenager, or for rabid psychotic wendigo, but not for creepy pale-faced dude with no mouth wielding a fucking _tomahawk_.

"What the _fuck_?" Stiles asks the room in general, but considering Sean is cowering in a corner and Derek is picking himself up off the floor, the only person available to answer is the tomahawk-wielding guy and he has no mouth. "Seriously?" Stiles shouts, and then regrets it a second later when the guy turns on him.

"Stiles!" Derek cries, and for the third time Stiles sees his whole life flash before his eyes as No-Mouth Dude lunges, but a second later he can breathe again because Derek goes flying by in a truly spectacular tackle and No-Mouth Dude hits the wall on the other side of the room.

"I'm here to help!" Stiles announces, as Derek tries to wrangle the assailant into a pair of cuffs.

"Get out of here!" Derek tells him. "I've got this. _Go_." But then his statement is disproven when the tomahawk guy head-butts Derek and picks up his weapon again and makes another move on Sean, who is crying now, sobbing, and not doing anything useful at all, like running away or fighting.

Stiles steps in, literally, which is probably the last thing he should do considering he's in the path of a swinging tomahawk but he reminds himself that until that thing goes clear through the top of his head then he'll probably be okay/

Hopefully.

He raises his hands out of instinct because out of two options where one is getting hit with a tomahawk and the other is not getting hit with a tomahawk, he'll choose option B every time. His hands curl around the weapons' grip and No-Mouth grunts, and then frowns because he can't pull the weapon away.

Zombie strength beats werewolf strength, and it apparently beats whatever this dude is as well, because the guy yanks back to pull the tomahawk from Stiles' grasp and ends up losing his own grip and falling backward and right into Derek, who's shifted and growling and wastes no time knocking the guy to the ground.

"Does that constitute police brutality?" Stiles wonders as Derek attempts to knock the assailant out. "If you need someone to testify on your behalf, I'll totally do it. This seems justified to me."

"Get him and go!" Derek growls, again. Stiles rolls his eyes and attempts to haul Sean out of the corner but the kid actually hisses and _holy fuck_ those are some nasty teeth. "Uh, new plan! How about I keep both my hands! Wow—" he adds because No-Mouth has gotten free of Derek again and he lunges at Stiles in an attempt to retrieve his weapon.

Since pulling the thing out of Stiles' hand is obviously not an option the guy attempts to choke Stiles to death. The tests he and Isaac have run on whether Stiles actually needs to breathe now that he's a zombie demonstrate that yes, in fact, air is still very important, even if he can hold his breath wicked long now.

He makes a good effort, struggling to break No-Mouth's grip on his neck but the guy has all the leverage and Derek looks like he's napping over in the corner and Sean is clearly useless. Stiles lifts the tomahawk he's holding and attempts to knock the guy over the head with it, just to get him unconscious but it doesn't work. It's an awkward angle.

Instead, Stiles brings the weapon up between him and No-Mouth, shakes it a little as if to say, 'Here boy, you want this? You want the pointy object?' then he lobs it across the room, which happens to be the side of the room with all the windows. He didn't mean to, but he tosses it hard enough that the glass breaks and the weapon goes sailing out the window. 'Go fetch, Fucker,' Stiles thinks, and No-Mouth actually does.

He jumps straight out the window.

"I say again," Stiles croaks. "What the ever-loving fuck."

Derek, clearly disoriented but still shifted, pulls himself up and turns immediately to Stiles. "Are you okay?" Stiles gives him two thumbs up, so Derek wrangles Sean back into bed and handcuffs him to the railing with the special cuffs.

"Is that even going to hold?" Stiles wonders, pulling himself up off the ground and rubbing his neck, trying to get circulation back where it should be.

Derek glances at him. "It'll hold."

Stiles doesn't know if that's an informed opinion or false confidence but he doesn't care. He slumps against the wall, still rubbing at his neck. "Explain what the hell just happened here."

"What happened," Derek says, pacing closer. "Is I told you to run and you didn't."

Stiles scoffs. "You 'told' me. Please. You're not the boss of me."

"Your voice sounds off, let me look." 

Stiles pulls his hand away from his neck and briefly wonders how bad the bruising is. Must be pretty bad because Derek scowls. "Come on. Someone should look at that."

"What about him?" Stiles asks, jerking his chin at Sean Wolcott who is not making any effort to hide that he's a wendigo now, snarling and sobbing and freaking out.

"I'll send a nurse in to calm him down." 

Both the guy's arms are locked to the side of the bed, Stiles is pretty sure that whoever comes in to give the kid another sedative won't be in too much danger, so he lets himself be pulled away and ushered to another room.

"Hey," he greets with a casual wave as Melissa comes into his room. "I was looking for you."

She clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes. Stiles doesn't appreciate the exasperated look she shares with Derek, but she checks him over, challenges him not to speak if at all possible to 'give his voice a rest' and rubs some numbing cream onto his neck but otherwise has nothing else for him. "You'll live," she tells him, smiling fondly.

"Yippee," Stiles says.

"No talking," Derek growls.

Stiles makes a face, slumps back in bed and crosses his arms while Derek and Melissa make arrangements for Stiles to have the room for the next few hours since they have to fill out a report on what happened. Melissa keeps smirking at Stiles and giving him little knowing side-looks and Stiles makes faces back at her and they both try to hide the fact that they're making faces at each other from Derek, who seems to be genuinely concerned that Stiles is going to collapse from the ordeal or something.

"Dude, I'm fine," Stiles keeps insisting as he fills out his account of the evening's events and Derek keeps reminding him to _write it down_ and _stop talking_.

"Stop talking," Derek says, right on cue.

"Can I get a ride back to my place?" Stiles asks once the paperwork is done and he's finally allowed up from bed. "Isaac dropped me off here."

Derek nods, leads the way to where his cruiser is parked and the drive over to Stiles' apartment is quiet and tense. Derek hadn't told him who No-Mouth was or what he was doing in Sean Wolcott's room besides, apparently, attempting to kill him. Stiles is pretty sure that when he gets around to the autopsies on the other Wolcott's he'll find that the tomahawk is a perfect match for the murder weapon. It's not really comforting that their murderer is identified but still at large, though. 

"What are you doing?" Stiles asks when Derek parks the cruiser and follows him up the sidewalk.

Derek stares at him blankly, like it should be perfectly obvious what he's doing. Which it is. What Stiles _meant_ to ask was 'why'. Why are you doing this?

Derek shadows him all the way up to his apartment door, and then stops him from unlocking it with a cautious touch to his wrist. "You shouldn't have done that, tonight. It was a stupid risk."

Stiles shrugs. "You needed back-up."

"I was fine."

"Bullshit."

"Stiles," Derek says. "You could have been killed."

True, Stiles thinks, but not that easily. And anyway, "You could have too." 

"Just--" Derek looks like he's having to force the words out, like they physically pain him, or he's having some epic internal struggle or something. Severe verbal constipation. "Take care of yourself."

"Sure," Stiles promises, grinning. "I always do."

Derek glares. "I mean it."

Stiles glares right back at him, steps up into his face and says, "I will if you will!"

"Fine," Derek growls, taking his own step forward. Then he adds, "You first." 

"No, I insist," Stiles says, just to be a smartass.

"You're insane." It's a wonder that Derek looks like he's only just now realizing this simple truth.

Stiles bristles. "Well, you're an asshole!"

Smiling, Derek shifts back a step. "Good night, Stiles," he says, quiet and fond, and then, before Stiles has the opportunity to respond, Derek changes direction, leans forward bridging the distance enough to drop a dry, warm kiss to Stiles' lips that promptly steals all of the breath out of Stiles' lung.

He stands there, stupid and blinking, while Derek flashes him a shy smile and then retreats hastily down the hall.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles doesn't tell anyone about the kiss. It might have something to do with the fact that Scott is asleep when Stiles finally gets around to going inside his apartment, and the next morning Scott brings up the annual Sheriff's Department Halloween party, which is still a couple of months out, and when Stiles admits that he's not really feeling it this year and probably won't participate, that launches an argument that distracts Stiles from any opportunity to talk about what happened with Derek.

"You do it every year!" Scott says, and he rarely gets angry enough to raise his voice, which is how Stiles can tell that his friend is pissed. Scott usually prefers underhanded methods to win an argument, like a wide sad-eyed stare, or whining. Right now, Scott slams his coffee mug down hard on the counter and it's a wonder the thing doesn't chatter. "You've gone, since you were a kid. You love the Halloween party."

"Yeah, well this year I'm taking a break."

Scott seems to view this as a metaphor for Stiles' whole life. That choosing not to go to this party means that Stiles will be even more of an anti-social asshole – "Wow, who are you calling anti-social? I go out! I do things. Sometimes I do things with people," Stiles argues. 

"Yeah? When was the last time you came out with Kira and me?"

Stiles smiles benignly and gives his friend the finger because he actually can't answer Scott's question and doesn't want to admit that.

"Fuck, Stiles!" Scott shouts back, and then starts outlining all the ways that Stiles' self-imposed isolation is 'not good' for him, and how he can't 'shut himself away for the rest of his life' and it goes on and on until Scott realizes that he's going to have to skip his morning run if he doesn't want to be late for work and Stiles concludes the discussion by storming out the front door, and slamming it really hard as he goes because he's mature like that.

They're backlogged at the morgue, so he and Isaac get right to work and there's a lot less conversation overall, which is fine because, by that point, Stiles has almost forgotten about the kiss altogether.

Except that's a lie, and he thinks that even if the day had gone completely different, if Scott had has been in a good mood, or hadn't brought up the party, if the morgue hadn't been busy and Isaac had been his normal, bantery self, Stiles probably wouldn't have told them about the kiss anyway. It feels private, somehow. Personal.

Special.

…………………………………………………….

It's sort of anticlimactic when the comparative tests they run between Sean Wolcott's DNA and the DNA found on the John Doe jogger are a match. The case resolves itself so easily, since Sean is already in custody. They transfer him to secure holding, and it turns out that the Wolcotts are a family of unregistered wendigos which, by this point, surprises exactly no one. The locker room that Jordan finds in the cold cellar of the house is horrifying and awful, but then again, they're a family of wendigos and they had to eat sometime.

Of more interest in the tomahawk, which is confirmed as a match for the murder weapon used to kill the Wolcotts, because that's a lead they can use. The wendigos are the least of Beacon Hills' problems, because even as they wrap that case there have had six other bodies turn up, all supernatural individuals. It's gotten so that when a body gets wheeled in, Isaac will blandly ask, "Which is it this time?" and Stiles is a little tired of having one of three options: decapitated by thermo-cut wire, stabbed by a weirdly-shaped object, or hacked to bits by tomahawk.

There are three serial killers running around Beacon Hills, and their body count is rapidly climbing to well beyond anything a bunch of wendigos could have managed in such short time.

…………………………………………………….

Derek doesn't bring up the kiss either, which would bother Stiles except that they're both extremely busy, what with the serial killers. Also, because Derek's ears turn pink sometimes when he drops by the morgue for the ME report on a case he's working, and it's pretty obvious that he still feels something, whatever that might be. If things ever calmed down enough for them to have a chance to talk Stiles doesn't even know what, if anything, he wants to say. Up until a few days ago he'd been certain that he was done with relationships.

But now?

…………………………………………………….

The body of Samantha Caplan is brought in on Friday. COD is garroted by thermo-cut wire. Isaac unzips the body bag and Stiles had thought the ME had looked pretty exhausted and defeated before, but somehow Isaac's shoulders slump even more. "I hate when it's kids," he says, and then sets about arranging the tools he needs for the autopsy, not noticing how Stiles is pretty much trying to become one with the wall on the opposite side of the room.

It isn't until Isaac mentions, "Derek might want your help on this one" and Stiles immediately snarls, "No!" that the ME glances up from where he's picking up a scalpel and finally realizes.

"Shit. Do you know her?"

"Her sister," Stiles explains. "I know her older sister, Heather. I'm not…I can't…"

Isaac drops the scalpel, ushers Stiles into the break room and shoves him gently but forcefully down onto the scratchy blue couch as he says, "No, hey. That's fine. It was just a suggestion. I'm sure Derek can solve this one without you. And I don't need an assist on this, okay? You stay here and watch something." 

When Isaac switches the TV on it starts playing 'Fido' and he hastily stops the disc. "Maybe something else." He leaves Stiles staring vacantly at an episode of 'Days of Our Lives'.

…………………………………………………….

By lunch time Samantha's autopsy is finished and she's been stitched up and returned to cold storage, and Stiles is allowed out of the break room. "I'm gonna drop by the station," he tells Isaac, already heading for the door.

When he arrives at the station with a bag of take-out from the place across the street he's met with a very grim-faced dad who summons him into the office like he's about to deliver horrible news. "I already know," Stiles says, hoping to cut his dad off at the pass. "Sam came in this morning. Isaac's working up the report."

His dad sighs. "It's not that." He picks up a piece of paper from his desk, looks at it for a moment and then glances to Stiles. "Parrish found a link between the recent murders." Then he clamps his mouth closed and doesn't continue.

"Okay," Stiles prompts.

Instead of an answer, his dad hands him the paper. It's a list of names arranged alphabetically, with a numerical marker beside each one. Stiles stares at it for a minute, unnerved to realize that he recognizes a good portion of the names on the list. Including his own. "What the hell is this?"

His dad clears his throat before saying, "It's a list of supernaturals living in and around the Beacon Hills area."

"Scott's on this list," Stiles points out. "I'm on this list. How is this … why am I on this list?"

"I don't know," his dad says. "I don't know how this information could possibly have been collected. But that's not the most worrying thing."

"Oh great. What's more worrying than someone knowing what I am?"

"Those numbers? We think it relates to payment."

Stiles stares at his dad, and then at the list, mouth open and mind silently buzzing with shock. "Are you telling me this is a hit list?"

…………………………………………………….

These are the things that his dad can tell him: that the entire station is working this case, that every precaution is being taken, that there's a county-wide curfew in place for all the good it will do them, that everyone is doing all that they can. He can't tell Stiles who made the list or how anyone could know that information because he can't tell Stiles anything he doesn't actually know.

They have no leads on where No-Mouth is holed-up, and no clue who the other two assassins are either. They don't know why these people are laughtering innocent supernaturals, outside of the fact that there seems to be money involved, but someone, somewhere has to have a motive beyond that. A freaking reason to be doing this.

Stiles can't stop thinking about every single dead supernatural who has come into the morgue latterly, who he has had to autopsy. Were they all hits? Could there be more than three assassins?

Did someone really get paid for doing that to them?

When he returns to the morgue, Stiles cuts a beeline toward cold storage. "Where's Sam?" 

Isaac is sitting at the computer, writing up a report but he looks up to frown confusedly at Stiles. "I stitched her up. She's in the back. Row three, it's marked. Why?"

"You were right," Stiles says, grimly. "They probably need help on this one."

If there were any other option, he would take it. If there were another body that he could be reasonably confident was killed by someone who might know more about that list and who made it, then he'd take it. But there's only Samantha, and Stiles and everyone else on that list needs answers, and the sooner the better.

…………………………………………………….

The first vision that he gets comes when he catches sight of the tray filled with their autopsy implements set out and waiting, which prompts a memory of a dentist appointment and sitting in a chair with his mouth open and being impatient because the dentist was chatting up his assistant. It doesn't do more than make Stiles sick with guilt, because he remembers Sam, how she was an impatient kid with too much energy. Stiles used to send her on scavenger hunts when he came over to visit, and he'd play with Sam sometimes when he was waiting for Heather to finish getting ready to go out.

The second vision isn't all that helpful either. It hits him when he's sitting with Isaac, watching the ME concoct the latest attempt at the cure for zombiesm. The liquid swishes around at the bottom of the beaker, bright green and unnatural looking and suddenly Stiles is sitting in a high school science class that won't end, doodling hearts in his notebook and sketching out little stick-figure scenes of angels causing trouble and demons being unwittingly blamed for it.

Heather calls him during the afternoon, and Stiles' own emotions are multiplied by a thousand, because he's already pretty stressed but now he's also tripping on the brain of a thirteen years old, so by the time he hangs up with her he's sitting in a corner of the break room sobbing. "I'm a horrible person!" he tells Isaac. "Why does anyone even like me? Why does Derek like me?" and that thought is jarring enough that he sits up and asks, completely honestly, "Oh my god … do you think Derek still likes me, even though I'm so horrible?"

"Jesus Christ, Stiles, it's like you're drunk," Isaac mutters, trying to heft him up off the floor. "Or possessed. Just take it easy. This isn't you it's the … teenage hormones?" 

Stiles continues to sob. "I'm never eating another brain again. This is literally the worst. I am literally the worst!" 

At the end of the day, having gone through a series of mood swings, feeling horribly alienated and convinced that the world can never understand him, Stiles drives home along his usual route, which happens to pass Beacon Hills High.

To complete his already shitty day, he nearly parks his Jeep in the middle of a lamppost when the sight of the school prompts a memory of being garroted by a thermo-cut cut wire. He only barely manages to pull to the side of the road and, gasping because he can still feel where the wire sliced through his skin and muscle and burned his jugular, he relays everything he saw to Derek.

"You think the murder is a high school kid?" Derek asks him.

"One of them at least," Stiles insists. "A girl. About the same height as me … I mean, the same height as Samantha. She has long dark hair, she—" he has to stop to calm himself down because he realizes that his hands are shaking. Stiles rests his forehead on the steering wheel and counts slowly to ten and then starts his description of the murderer again from the beginning, trying to be as clinical as possible. This didn't happen to me, he reminds himself. This happened to Sam. But his throat aches so horribly and it won't stop.

…………………………………………………….

"Hey, buddy," Scott greets when Stiles walks through the door.

Stiles lets the door swing closed behind him and makes a beeline to his friend, doesn't stop onto he's got his arms wrapped about Scott in a tight hug. "Uh, thank man," Scott says, patting Stiles' back lightly. "What's this for?"

"I love you," Stiles tells his friend. "You're my best friend in the whole world."

That goes a long way in softening Scott up, but apparently eating the brain of a thirteen year old means he's in a sharing and caring mood, and Stiles finds himself explaining how he hasn't trusted himself since he woke up on that beach in a body bag with an unnatural craving for brains. That sometimes he catches himself feeling the way he used to feel before and it feels good and horrible at the same time, because he shouldn't feel the same. He should feel different. 

Scott orders them a ridiculous amount of pizza and Stiles brings all of the blankets and pillows out of both of their rooms and they settle on the couch in the living room. "Hey, how about we watch Star Wars?" Scott offers.

Stiles isn't even remotely ashamed of the way this perks him up, because he's been insisting for years and years that Scott needs to watch these movies."You're finally going to watch Star Wars?"

"Yeah, buddy. Let's do it. It's the perfect night for it."

So that's what they do. They finish A New Hope and Stiles puts the pizza away while Scott cues up The Emperor Strikes Back because they've decided to marathon it. Scott makes popcorn and sits on the floor because Stiles has stretched out on the couch in his absence. At some point Stiles starts weaving braids into his friend's hair, doesn't even realize he's doing it at first because it feels so natural. Scott's floppy mass of hair is just right there. 

By the time that Luke loses his hand to Darth Vader Stiles realizes that they are having the quintessential girly sleepover, camping out in the living room in their pajamas, with Stiles braiding his best-friend's hair. "Hey," he asks casually, finishing the braid he's been twining with whatever's closest to hand, which happens to be a twist-tie for the garbage bags. "I know why I'm sitting here braiding your hair, dude. But why are you letting me?"

Scott cranes his head around to look at him, then turns back to the movie with a shrug, shoves another fistful of popcorn into his mouth. "It's nice," he says as he crunches. "You're my bro. This is bro time."

Stiles is struck all at once with an overwhelming sense of gratitude that Scott McCall is his friend. He's unflappable, never once flinching away from Stiles' weirdness, and there have been some pretty weird times. Scott can roll with anything, and he does. 

"You're my favorite, Scottie," Stiles tells him honestly. "I promise I'm going to try and stop being such an anti-social bastard."

Scott smiles brightly at him. "That's good. But go slow, okay? I get that this has been hard, but you can't keep hiding away anymore. It's been over a year, dude. What are you afraid of, at this point?"

…………………………………………………….

Stiles falls asleep on the couch, which means that when his cellphone wakes him up the next it's screeching at him from the arm rest, right beside his head. It's playing 'I fought the law and the law one', which is his dad's ringtone, so he scrambles for it despite the fact that it is a horrible, horrible way to wake up.

As it turns out, his dad has good news: the tips Stiles had about the high school led to two arrests. High school kids, a boy and a girl, and while the two were clearly psychopaths and arrogant as all hell, neither one of them were a match for the county Sheriff's department.

"They broke in interrogation?" Stiles asks.

"They admitted to the murders. The girl, the one you saw your vision, wears her thermo-cut wire as a necklace. The guy used a lacrosse stick."

Stiles frowns. "Like, he stabbed them with the stick?"

"He used the stick to conceal the weapon." Apparently both received a fair amount of money for the people they murdered, though why they needed the money is unclear. His dad sighs, "Frankly, don't think either one of these kids needed much incentive. They're both very disturbed."

"Did they say anything about who paid them? Or how the list was made?"

"They called him The Benefactor. That's pretty much all we could get from them. Apparently, all contact with this Benefactor was electronic. They picked a name, committed the murder and sent a picture, and then the money would be wired into their account."

Apprehending two serial killers is great news, but the Benefactor, whoever that is, is still out there, egging people on. Giving them incentive to kill, and there's at least one other assassin that they know of still out there.

…………………………………………………….

Scott accuses Stiles of watching zombie movies as some kind of masochistic self-torture thing. He doesn't use those words exactly, but Stiles knows what he's getting at, and maybe he's got a point. "These are my people, Scottie," Stiles always says, which usually leads to Scott smacking him with a pillow or tackling him off the couch or something.

Since Scott got called in for an emergency surgery on a cat that ate one its toys and won't be home until later, Stiles takes the opportunity to curl up on the couch under a blanket and put in Warm Bodies. It's as close to a rom com as he lets himself get these days and it usually leaves him feeling more maudlin than anything. So it's probably a good thing that he's not even halfway through when there's a knock on the door.

He's half-expecting it to be No-Mouth with his tomahawk dropping by to chop Stiles into tiny pieces, but as it turns out it's only Derek. Somehow that's just as, if not more threatening. "I just wanted to check that you were okay," Derek says awkwardly.

"Sure. Well, I'm fine. As you can see." Stiles holds his arms out to the side, presenting himself in all his awkward, sweatpants-wearing glory. "Are you?" he asks, as second later. "Okay?"

"Yeah." Derek shifts from one foot to the other. "Your dad mentioned that Scott wasn't going to be home until later."

"Yeah. There was a kitten emergency or something." It occurs to him that Derek is still standing in the hallway, so Stiles hastily steps a side, swings an arm in invitation. 

Stiles isn’t exactly sure what to do the with other man now that Derek is in his apartment, so he heats up leftover pizza and forces the deputy to sit at the breakfast bar and eat it. 

"Were you watching a movie?" Derek asks, and Stiles glances in the direction of the TV where his movie is still paused. 

It doesn't feel right watching zombie movies in front of Derek, almost like he's tempting fate or something, so he grabs the remote and switches to regular television. "Uh, just, you know…" he says. There's an episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine playing and that feels much safer.

When Derek finishes his pizza he washes his plate by hand and dries it, even though Stiles has got a dishwasher. Somehow they end up on the couch, only half interested in what's playing on the TV.

"You know," Stiles says cautiously during a commercial break. "The Benefactor is only targeting supernaturals."

Derek shifts, angling so he can face Stiles better on the couch. "Yeah."

Stiles forces a bright grin, because at least it doesn't seem like Derek's seen Stiles' name on the list. "Admit it," he teases. "You're not here to protect me. You came here so I could protect you!" 

Rolling his eyes, Derek turns back to the TV. "Yeah. That must be the reason."

…………………………………………………….

It's funny to joke who's protecting whom right up until Stiles gets home the next day from work only to find a tomahawk impaled in the his front door and his best friend being choked in the kitchen.

Scott's pretty strong but Stiles remembers that No-Mouth was no pushover and it's clear that even with his werewolf-power, Scott is struggling. Stiles would like to say that he keeps a level head but he's pretty sure that's not the case, because he spends a few seconds gaping by the door, trying to process what he's seeing.

What he's seeing is Scott, bend-double over the kitchen island where they always sit to eat their breakfast together, being choked from behind by No-Mouth. Scott look up from where he's turning an alarming shade of blue and he meets Stiles' eyes and – and that's it.

That's what Stiles remembers before everything goes red.

He doesn't know how much time passes between that moment and when he starts to come back to himself, but the next thing he registers is someone calling his name. Stiles assumes it must be Scott, but the more he tries to focus on it and let the voice lead him back into himself the more he realizes that the voice is too sort, too deep to be Scott.

Then he blinks and realizes that Scott is actually standing in front of him and his lips aren't moving at all, which only confirms what Stiles had known, that there's someone else with them. When he glances down he sees blood on his hands and over there, lying beside the stools is the slumped over figure of No-Mouth, who Stiles quite possibly has just killed.

"Stiles," the voice says again, and Stiles winces, because that's very definitely Derek saying his name, and when Stiles risks a glance the man looks very pale and a little tight-slipped and all too disturbingly cautious.

"I just—" Stiles tries to explain. "I didn't mean…"

Scott steps forward but he's still clearly unsteady on his feet, and it's all just too much. It's too much to process, so Stiles makes the executive decision not to. Instead, he bolts, ducking passed Derek and out the door, he flees the scene of the crime but he doesn't think he'll be in too much trouble for that, because he drives straight to the Sheriff's place. 

Technically that could be considered turning himself in.

…………………………………………………….

His dad stops by his room before he turns in, knocking twice on the door and making sure to stand just at the threshold. Feels like old times, like Stiles is a teenager again and his dad is reminding him to get to bed soon because he's got school in the morning.

Except what his dad says is, "How long are you planning on hiding out here?"

"I'm not hiding!" Stiles argues. "Can't a guy just decide to drop by and visit his dad? And then maybe move back into his old room and never leave it again? Ever?"

His dad smiles. "I don't mind. In fact, it's nice to have you around again. Feels like old times. But sooner or later you're going to have to face this. You never know, Derek might surprise you."

"Yeah," Stiles mumbles. "By shooting a bullet through my head. That would be pretty surprising."

His dad looks caught somewhere between disturbed by the image and troubled, with a side-order of exasperated amusement. "Still," he insists. "Can't hide forever."

Stiles shrugs. "Yeah, well. We'll see about that."

"Good night, kiddo," his dad says, and even though they don't do all that often, his dad reaches out and draws Stiles into a crushing hug.

…………………………………………………….

The next morning Stiles gets up to an empty house, his dad having left for station already, the report he'd taken after he'd forced Stiles to recount what he could remember of that night is missing from where it had been left on the kitchen table. Stiles makes coffee in the old plastic coffee maker that has had pride-of-place on the kitchen counter for as long as Stiles can remember, and sits down to a breakfast of eggs and toast at the table that still has streaks of indelible ink from the model solar system he'd made with his mom a small age ago, the newspaper they'd put down not enough to protect the wood from the dip-dye they'd used.

It's a soothing balm on his nerves and suddenly the outside world seems a little less relevant than it did yesterday. He forgets about zombies and werewolves and mass murderers and concentrates instead on clearing his dishes away and pouring another cup of coffee.

That's probably why, when there's a knock on the front door, Stiles doesn't even hesitate. Coffee in hand, wearing a faded Batman T-shirt and over-sized sleep-pants that pool around his feet, he opens the door with sleep-mussed hair, half-thinking that it will be Scott standing on the mat like old times. Just to see if everything's okay.

It's not Scott.

"Oh geez," Stiles sighs, rubbing his free hand over his face. "My dad called you, didn't he?"

"Can I come in?" Derek asks.

Stiles pushes the front door open wider, stepping back and taking a gulp of coffee trying to hold on to any of the good feelings he'd woken up to. It's futile. Shoulders slumped he shuffles into the living room and drops onto the couch.

Derek closes the front door and then hovers in the hallway until Stiles takes pity on him, making a magnanimous gesture to the available seating options in the living room. Derek perches on the edge of a high-back chair, and he looks so tense that Stiles wonders if the man would actually have a coronary if Stiles pointed out that technically that's the sheriff's chair. 

The silence stretches between them as Stiles finishes his coffee.

"I didn't mean to disturb your morning," Derek says, clearing his throat.

Not feeling particularly disturbed, Stiles shrugs. Morning or evening, he strongly suspects this is a conversation he'd prefer to avoid. In some ways it's probably good to get it over with, better still that Derek dropped by like this, unexpectedly, because it saved Stiles agonizing over the inevitable.

Derek, however, looks particularly chagrined. "Your dad told me you were here." Something that looks suspiciously close to fond amusement flashes over the man's face. "He seemed to think I should come by sooner, rather than later so …”

Stiles can just imagine. His dad probably stopped by Derek’s desk for a friendly chat, and then just happened to turn the conversation toward the subject of Stiles, and then just happened to mention that Stiles had turned up at the house. It was undoubtedly casual because his dad is a master at this sort of thing, of making his opinion clear without ever saying outright. Stiles and his dad have a long-standing tradition of trying to out-sly each other, on the premise that it's for the other's own good.

“I came straight here,” Derek continues, staring at his hands where they hang, wrists balanced on his knees. “I tried to call you last night. I even hung around your apartment for a while,” he admits, finally looking up to catch Stiles’ eye. “I thought you’d come back eventually.”

There’s no excuse that Stiles can make up. Not one that would make any sort of sense, especially not when he’s still a little sleep-dumb and also trying to process all of the feelings that having Derek Hale sitting on a chair in his living room is bringing up. He tries to hide behind his coffee mug, which is not at all effective as it turns out, especially as he’s at his dad’s place so his mug is just regular-sized rather than the massive thing that Scott gave him for Christmas one year that Stiles would swear is almost as big as his own head. 

Derek waits him out, apparently determined to force Stiles to participate in this conversation. With a mulish frown, Stiles shrugs. “Well, I was here so …”

“Yeah,” Derek sighs. “I got that.”

When the silence threatens to settle again, Stiles decides to bite the bullet. “Look, say whatever it is you need to say, alright? But it’s early and this is my day off, I would prefer to not waste it getting yelled at by one of my dad’s deputies, kay?”

The salient point, in Stiles’ opinion, is the bit where he cleverly managed to work his dad into the conversation, hopefully reminding the other man that Stiles is the son of Derek's boss, that this is Sheriff's house, and if Derek decides to go off the rails here there could be serious repercussions, because Stiles' dad is more protective than a momma bear and everyone knows that.

Not that Stiles holds any hope that his dad would bring personal issues into the work place, but Stiles is pretty confident that if he’s reasonably traumatized by whatever Derek is about to do or say here, then his dad would at least consider transferring Derek out of Beacon Hills.

The bit that Derek catches on, though is, “Why would I yell at you?”

Sighing, Stiles sets his mug down onto the table, braces his hands on his pajama-clad thighs, looks the werewolf deputy straight in the eye and says, “I am a zombie,” then he motions with his hands, a sort of ‘go ahead’ or ‘that’s your cue’ gesture, and waits.

Derek blinks. “I know.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, I know you know because you sort of busted into my apartment last night like you were possessed by the Coolade Man himself, and happened to catch me raging-out on some crazy assassin dude who was disturbingly lacking a mouth. My point is, obviously this comes as a surprise for you…” he waits, but Derek is just sitting there, not looking terribly surprised, so he continues, “maybe you are experiencing a sense of betrayal? Or shock? Or horror?” He waits, but Derek is just looking at him calmly, it's totally infuriating. “Maybe you’re at least wondering how the hell it’s even possible?”

Derek laughs. It’s bizarrely light and easy given the conversation Stiles had been bracing for ever since he ran out of his apartment the other night. If he didn't know better, Stiles would say that Derek looks soft, looks almost fond. Stiles doesn’t know what to do with that.

“I know about zombies, Stiles. I worked in New York, remember.” 

That fails to compute. Stiles blinks, tries to process it, fails, and blinks some more. “You what now?”

“I’ve known what you were since the beginning, since I got here.”

That still isn’t making any sort of sense to Stiles. “No, I’m sorry. Still not getting it.”

Derek snorts. “You live with a werewolf. Even if I didn’t know about zombies, I can hear your heart beat, Stiles. How could you think I wouldn’t notice that?”

“But …” Stiles says and the stops and actually considers what he had been about to say. “But Scott never figured it out! I had to tell him.”

Derek is openly smirking now. That damnable smirk that Stiles has grown sort of reluctantly attached to. “Did you ever think that maybe he was waiting for you to tell him when you were ready to?”

“No, because he wasn’t! He was surprised, okay? I’ve known him since we were kids, I know when he’s surprised and he was totally surprised.”

Derek actually seems to mull that over. “Well, he’s …” then he purses his lips together and glances away.

“He’s what?” Stiles snaps, and adds, sharper. "Say it."

Derek looks vaguely guilty. “No, I shouldn't. It’s not fair to your friend…”

“Say it!” Stiles demands, half out of curiosity and half because he’s been bracing for an epic fallout with Derek and now that it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen, he’s almost disappointed. 

“He’s not a very good werewolf.”

Stiles pulls himself up straight, opens his mouth ready to leap to his friend’s defense and then, just as suddenly, sags. He's been saying the same thing since high school, when Scott had been turned. “He really isn’t.” 

“Your heart beats ten times every minute.”

Stiles sighs. “I know.” 

Scott told him once that the heightened senses that came with his lycanthropy were overwhelming, that having an anchor made it easier but that he still preferred to shut everything down unless he needed it. At the time, it made sense because of course, whatever Scott needed, whatever made it all easier. Now Stiles thinks that if his best friend is missing things that are as obvious as his BFF turning into the walking dead, making he should turn-up his wolfy-senses. Just a little.

That’s an entirely different conversation. Right now, Stiles scratches absently as his cheek and lets this new information slot into place. “Is that what you were doing?” he asks. “Just humoring me? Waiting for me to tell you the truth?”

Derek shrugs. “You were pretty adamant that you were psychic.”

Stiles huffs. “Well now I just feel foolish.”

Derek smiles. “Don’t. You couldn’t have known that I already knew.”

“You could have told me,” Stiles points out. "I mean, that would have been the polite thing."

“Maybe. But I wasn’t sure who knew. It didn't seem right."

Stiles thinks about how everything started, the weird looks that Derek would give him all pinched-brows and so clearly judgmental. He'd thought it was because Derek was skeptical and Stiles couldn't fault him for that: as far as anyone knew, psychics weren't actually a thing. But after that came grudging respect and then a tentative sort of friendship. 

Months of Stiles agonizing about the lie that existed at the foundation of their relationship: Derek needed Stiles because of his psychic powers. But if Derek already knew that Stiles wasn't psychic, if he knew, right from the beginning about what Stiles was…

"You never seemed freaked-out, though," he murmurs, and the moment he says it, Stiles wants to take it back. Zombie versus werewolf? In a fight, the werewolf would probably win. Stiles has access to a staggering amount of strength when he rages out, but Derek has actual claws and pointy teeth. He probably shouldn't poke at the werewolf too much.

Derek doesn't dismiss the question. "You're not the first undead person I've met …"

"Call it what it is!" Stiles says, instinctive. 

"Back in New York there was a case. It was ongoing for a while," Derek continues. "It was big. Big enough to involve the whole department, the Sergeant even let the detective working it, Ford, take over a portion of the wall to workout some ideas. Ford was a bit like your dad, she liked to make mind maps. It helped her work things out. I'd walk passed the pictures every day and look at all the people, the zombies, that had been killed."

"Wait," Stiles blurts. "Wait wait wait. What? Someone was killing zombies?"

Deren nods. "When the ME report came back and Ford brought the information to the Sergeant. There was a department-wide announcement, but the order was that we don't ever mention it unless we had to." He shrugs. "I never did. The zombies that I'd met were peaceful. They had some trouble transitioning, but they developed a network and they made it work. They kept it quiet. That seems to be a common instinct." He gives Stiles a pointed a look.

Stiles nods aggressively. He can't imagine any circumstances under which he would be happy to turn into a zombie. Scott's theory is that it's conditioning, the result of pop culture depictions of zombies as villains, and mindless villains at that. The goal in zombie stories is always to survive, and turning into a zombie is seen as a failure.

"Yeah," Derek says, quietly, and something in his expression or the tone makes Stiles thinks that Derek doesn't agree with this. 

Stiles wants to snap, 'Well let's see you handle this, big guy! Let's see how well you cope with having to eat a person's brain in order to survive! Let's see how good you feel about yourself when your literal sanity relies on you eating brains at all!' But Derek is already speaking again before he can open his mouth.

"Ford's theory was that murders were part of a cover-up. Super Max was a limited release power drink, which meant limited exposure. People affected by the chemical were an even smaller percentage from that. Max Rager stood to lose … stands to lose, a lot of money if what they've done is ever exposed. The public outrage would destroy the company, and not just the company, but the CEO, the people in charge. There would be a cry for justice."

"Wait wait. So, Ford figured Max Rager put a hit out on all zombies? As a cover-up?"

"She had evidence. She said there were similar homicides in other cities."

"Why am I just hearing about this now? This is huge!"

"The FBI came in and took the case from her. I don't know whether they're still working it or not."

"Why wouldn't they be working it?" Stiles gapes, and then promptly answers his own question, "Shit. You think Max Rager bought off the FBI?"

"I don't know, Stiles," Derek insists. "It wasn't my case. I was out of the office most of the time with the Alpha Pack. All I know is that Ford was putting something together and then the FBI took it over. Since there were similar homicides reported in several different cities that's standard procedure. But …" Derek inhales slowly, shrugs. "But that's something else I learned from working in New York. Money can buy pretty much anything. The company definitely funded more than a few campaigns. Maybe it's jaded but…"

"But it's possible…" Stiles finishes. "Fuck."

It's a lot to process, and as he sits there mulling over this new information Stiles realizes, "This is not the talk I was mentally preparing myself for…"

Derek snorts. "I know. But I thought I should tell you why we don't ever have to have that talk."

There's a smile spreading across his face, Stiles can feel it. "Really?" he asks, hopeful, and then immediately tries to reign himself in. "Are you sure you know what I was preparing for? Because the talk I was scripting in my head covered a lot of issues and …"

"I know, Stiles," Derek says. "It's okay."

"Awesome." It is more than awesome. Outside of Isaac, everyone else has had to adjust to how much Stiles had changed because of that stupid party. Everyone, including his dad and his best friend, his fiancé had to re-learn who Stiles was, had to come to terms with the fact that he was different. Isaac had only ever known Stiles after he'd been turned. He embraced the idea of zombies the way he did werewolves and pixies and nymphs, and never quite seemed to understand that zombies were very different from all of those things. As thrilled by the fact that he'd been right when his colleagues had been wrong, as he had been that knew something most people didn't.

Derek understands and accepts that zombies aren't at all like pixies. Now that Stiles realizes the werewolf has known since the beginning, he also realizes that Derek has never been naïve about zombies the way Isaac sometimes is. 

As if sensing where Stiles' thoughts have gone, Derek says, "You can talk about it with me, if you want to."

Shifting uneasily on the couch, Stiles admits, "I don't know if I can." 

"Try. If you can't then you can't. But if you want to, I'm here."

Instinctively, Stiles draws his legs up onto the couch, resting his chin on his knees. "It's not much of a story," he says, but he ends up telling it anyway, starting with his nearly perfect life and how everything seemed to be falling into place, only to abruptly fall apart.

Then he goes on, tells Derek about how, in the middle of trying to get the hang of this whole zombie thing, Stiles realized there was something weird going on in Beacon Hills.

"Have you ever heard of a drug called Utopium?" Stiles asks, and when Derek nods, he continues. "The guy who turned me, he was a drug dealer, and he specialized in that stuff. It turned out he used to work at Max Rager, part of their product development team."

Derek sighs. "Let me guess, he unwittingly invented zombies."

"They fired him, obviously, when he tried to come clean about it. Max Rager wanted to sweep the incident under the rug, and he wanted to expose them. To do that, obviously, he needed proof."

"You mean, he needed more zombies."

Stiles nods. "Right, and to make more he needed the right chemical compounds, and that takes money. So drug dealing was his new source of income, seeing as Max Rager basically wrecked this guy's career, trying to discredit him. And every few batches of utopium he'd cut with the chemicals that initiate the zombie transformation, which he'd sell whenever he was passing through a large enough place. And weren't we so lucky that he decided to honor Beacon Hills with his presence. Only at some point, apparently he'd managed to infect himself, too, which just made things easier. All he had to do was scratch people."

"Like you."

"Me, and a whole bunch of others. By that point I think he didn't care so much about Max Rager. It was more of a fuck-the-world kind of deal. Getting fired had destroyed his life, his family left him. Once he got here he was mostly interested in setting up a new business. If his efforts to start a zombie apocalypse worked, then all those zombies would need a steady supply of the one thing every zombie craves."

"Jesus."

Stiles makes a face. "No, brains." 

Derek rolls his eyes, "It's disturbing that you can joke about this."

"What's disturbing is that while I was trying to figure myself out, I stumbled on this guy's creepy side business, which basic supply and demand. He'd infect a bunch of people and create the demand, then he'd kill a bunch of other people and there was the supply. Selling drugs and selling brains. I mean, I was just trying to figure out how a species that didn't exist a month prior suddenly, did. Eventually we crossed paths. At least we arrested the dude. But …" but there had been other consequences.

Derek gives him a second before he asks, cautiously. "Is that how Parrish found out?"

Stiles sighs. "I like to think I would have told him eventually. I mean, we were well broken up by that point but," he rubs a hand over his face and then shrugs. "But we were managing the friends thing. I would have told him, and my dad and Scott I just … but Jordan was working this case, and I guess the guy could tell, 'cause of the questions he was asking, that Jordan was figuring it all out. Jordan was chained up in a meat locker when I found him."

"Good thing you were working the case, too," Derek says, and Stiles shrugs again.

"Yeah. I got him out, but there was a bomb rigged on the place, to destroy the evidence, you know? When it went off I raged-out, to protect Jordan but I mean … still, you saw yourself, it's kind of unsettling to see. And of course I was still out of it when my dad pulled up with back-up. Luckily the whole department didn't see, Jordan had my back there but … but that's how my they found out that I wasn't really suffering from PTSD."

Derek reaches out and takes Stiles hand in his, squeezes it gently. "Thank you for telling me."

"Well, thanks for listening, or … you know…"

…………………………………………………….

Stiles is distracted for a while after Derek leaves, caught up in an embarrassingly giddy spiral because of how well things had gone. Derek knew and he didn't care and he'd kissed Stiles anyway. He didn't treat Stiles like he'd lost something, like he was somehow lesser than he used to be because of what he'd become. He didn't look at Stiles with stifling sympathy the way Jordan did sometimes, like he'd given up his chance at happiness in order to work at the morgue and scrounge brains to survive.

The brain eating sucked, but Stiles really liked being an ME. This wasn't the life he'd mapped out for himself, but it wasn't bad. He'd maybe started to make peace with it a little.

The later it got, though, the more Stiles started to mull over some of the other things he'd learned that day, and around nine o'clock as he was brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed certain things starting slotting into place and he barely remembered to rinse the toothpaste out of his mouth before he took off running down the stairs to get to his Jeep.

As a kid, Stiles had been considered the station mascot and when he'd gotten older people used to joke that he was an honorary deputy. Stiles' dad always told him this was because Stiles marched around like he owned the place. "Which one of us is the Sheriff again?" his dad would joke. "Sometimes it's hard to tell."

"Ha ha," Stiles would always retort. "Eat your veggies."

All of this is to say that when he blows through the doors looking, he's certain, at least half-crazed, no one bats their eyes. He jogs to the back where he knows Derek's desk is and steals an empty rolling chair from whichever deputy occupies the desk across from Derek.

"What if this all ties back to Max Rager?" he asks before Derek even has the chance to greet him. "Hear me out," Stiles continues, before the other man can give a response. "The Benefactor is ordering hits specifically on supernaturals, right? So what if someone's trying to 'clean up' Beacon Hills the same way Max Rager trying to 'clean up' their evidence?"

Derek waits a beat just to see if he's done, and then nods. "We've been looking into that, working up a list of people who live in or around the area who have demonstrated prejudice or have reason to hate and or resent the supernatural population."

"Yeah? What did you get?" Stiles asks, shuffling his chair closer because Derek is calling something up on his computer. The screen changes and Stiles whistles because, "That's a depressingly long list of names. Okay, but they'd need to be rich, or have access to a shit load of cash."

A few more keystrokes, the list is still long but more manageable. "Okay, better." Stiles purses his lips, and taps his chin. "What about," he says. "Has anyone on that list had any sort of involvement with Max Rager?" 

"Involved how?" Derek asks as he types.

"I don't know. Like a business deal or an employee, just, you know, something."

There are no recent employees are on the list, no one with any solid connection to Max Rager. "It was worth a shot," Stiles says.

Derek grunts, tapping his pencil on the desk.

"It's going to be a long night," Stiles says, kicking his feet up onto Derek's desk, laughing when the man shoves them off again. "You want Chinese food?"

…………………………………………………….

They're still sitting, brainstorming and sorting through the case files when there's a commotion from the back, in holding. A group of deputies are walking a pair of cuffed teenagers out and the kids are mouthing off, sneering and generally looking mentally unsound.

"Do you think they'll try for an insanity plea?" Stiles wonders aloud. Beside him, Derek snorts.

Stiles feels a prickle on the back of his neck and when he turns around there's a grim-faced man staring at him. He's not very remarkable to look at, brown hair, unmemorable face, nicely pressed suit and he's carrying a briefcase. Stiles is surprised that he recognizes the guy.

The glower, though. As far as Stiles can recall he hasn't done anything to warrant that sort of anger. He looks closer, realizes the man is squinting at Derek as well and something clicks. "I'm going to get a drink, do you want something?" Derek grunts and shakes his head no and Stiles gets up, striding across the room as the deputies wrangle the kids and the man, their lawyer, presumably, follows them out.

"Oh, sorry," Stiles says when he accidentally on purpose collides with the man. "Just going to get a soda, guess I wasn't paying attention. Oh, hey. It's Mr. Whittemore, right?"

David Whittemore grunts, glaring sourly at the hand that Stiles offers to shake. "O-kay," Stiles says. "I'm Stiles. Stiles Stilinski? I went to high school with your son. How's he doing?"

"Fine, thank-you. If you don't mind, I have to see to my clients."

"I thought you were getting a drink?" Derek asks when Stiles returns to the desk.

"Huh? Oh right. I guess I forgot." He goes back to flipping through papers, aware all the while of Derek's scrutiny.

Stiles' mind is whirring. By all rights, his own name shouldn't be on the Benefactor's list because everyone who knows about him is either dead or a close friend who would absolutely never betray him. The only other person Stiles can think of is the CEO of Max Rager who had, when Stiles had taken a trip out as part of his own effort to solve the mystery of zombiesm, had no problem at all recognize what Stiles was. 

The Whittemores are wealthy and influential, they have connections, because Stiles can remember back in high school, how Jackson used to brag about his dad maintained some clients from when he used to work at some bigwig law firm. For a time, Mr. Whittemore had practiced in Washington DC, until Jackson had rejected a werewolf bite and had turned into a murderous lizard-beast. Now Jackson is living in Echo House, which is the whimsical little nickname the residents of Beacon Hills have for the prison built to house supernatural criminals. 

That's motive and means.

If some of Whittemore's connections included top-shelf execs at Max Rager, then someone might have mentioned what Stiles was in conversation. That's all hearsay, though. If this guy is really the Benefactor, Stiles is going to have to find some way to prove it beyond the fact that the glared a lot and refused to shake his hand.

…………………………………………………….

Stiles likes to plan things, but that doesn't necessarily mean that he's especially good at it. His elaborate scheme in this instance, for example, mostly involves showing up at Whittemore's door, inviting himself cheerfully inside and then heavily insinuating that David Whittemore is paying a bunch of people to indiscriminately murder any and all supernaturals in and around the Beacon Hills area.

David, being a lawyer, is a little too cagey to admit to anything, which means Stiles can't record the unwitting confession. He goes so far as to coolly insist that he has no idea what Stiles is talking about but strongly dislikes the implications and threatens to take Stiles to court if he goes around mentioning his half-cocked theories. He's so convincing, Stiles might honestly start doubting himself.

Except that David Whittemore does all of these things while standing on the opposite side of the room, he doesn't touch Stiles, doesn't come anywhere near Stiles and even goes so far as to fail to offer him a drink. The Whittemores are very serious about manners, Stiles remembers, because he had an epic Harry-Draco-styles feud with Jackson when they were in high school and Jackson was just as infuriating and snooty as Draco had been in the books. Even Stiles knows that it's proper manners to offer your guest something to drink.

Stiles sits and listens as David blusters about slander and defamation of character, and make vague reference to court costs that could potentially sink Stiles' whole family into inescapable debt until the man runs out of steam. Then, very casually, he asks, "Just one more question. Was it Vaughn du Clark who told you about me? Or are there other people are Max Rager, outside of the CEO, who know that I'm a zombie."

Whittemore sputters, fidgets, and finally gets out, "What? Are you … are you crazy?"

"I'm hungry," Stiles says, narrowing his eyes. "It's so weird. I get so hungry and it's totally unpredictable, you know? Like, I can never tell when I just need … brains…" he sort of grumble-growls that last bit, doing his best impression of every cheesy, B movie zombie that he's ever seen, awkwardly hefting himself up from the couch and then stumble-shuffling closer over in Whittemore's direction.

Whittemore loses his shit. Not, thank god, literally, but still. As Stiles shuffles a few inches forward Whittemore throws his cellphone at Stiles and makes a break for the kitchen area. Stiles pauses, picks up the phone and realizes that there's a weird app running on it.

It's a texting service of some sort, and Stiles' name is typed out along with a numerical value that has an unsettling number of digits and is preceded by a dollar sign. It's followed by the time that he arrived at Whittemore's house, and the address. There's a nifty little countdown clock running, as the seconds tick by the amount of money clicks down.

"Did you … did you just put a hit on me?" Stiles wonders, which is silly because if David Whittemore is the Benefactor then he'd already had a hit out on Stiles. Stiles hadn't been worth an extreme amount before, though. Now he's worth over ten million. "Where are you even getting this money? You're not that loaded." 

Several things happen at once. The first being that glass breaks somewhere nearby, and from the sound of it, it's a lot of glass shattering all at once but before Stiles can go and see what's happening, someone grabs him from behind, an arm snaking across his chest, a hand knotting into his hair and yanking, and then he's sailing through the air. 

"What the—" he finishes the sentence by crashing heavily onto the floor, so the 'fuck' that he says gets swallowed along with his breath.

"Deputy Haigh?" Stiles blurts, legitimately surprised that he's about to be murdered by someone who works for his dad.

But then another series of events unfurls, which Stiles, still partially winded, observes with a sense of disconnect, like maybe this isn't actually happening. Because as Haigh comes forward, presumably about to murder Stiles with the service weapon that Stiles' own dad issued this guy, Jordan comes rushing through the front door and honest to god flying tackles Haigh to the ground, wresting the man's arms behind his back and cranking a pair of handcuffs closed around his wrists all under a minute.

"Uh," Stiles says, from where he is still lying in a sprawl on the ground. "Hey. What's up?"

Jordan's chest is heaving a little, but he turns around, clearly exasperated. "What's 'up' is you unerringly finding your way into trouble again."

"Yeah, about that…" Stiles hauls himself back onto his feet as Jordan yanks Haigh up. "At least there wasn't a bomb this time," he offers, and Jordan shakes his head despairingly and starts marching Haigh outside. Stiles falls into step, not entirely surprised to find two cruisers park on the street, and one sleek black Camaro. "Uh. How did you find me?"

Jordan jerks his chin to where Derek is busy conferring with another deputy. He detaches himself from the conversation long enough to glare at Stiles as Jordan starts muscling Haigh into the back of a cruiser. Stiles would almost prefer to just sneak away, but he doesn't have the chance. Derek descends on him in a few quick strides. 

"What's going on?" Stiles asks him, aiming for innocent.

"I'm a detective, Stiles," Derek says. "Did you think I wouldn't notice that exchange you had with Whittemore at the station?"

"Maybe?" Stiles rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. "But, I mean … don't you guys need proof? I'm pretty sure that how police work. They collect proof and that way they can make sure someone is guilty before they put them away."

Jordan holds up a plastic evidence bag that contains Whittemore's phone. "We've been trying to track the origin of the Benefactor's messages but the specialists haven't had much luck. But I mean, here it is right here. The contacts are all here on Whittemore's phone."

"Oh man, is he actually in there as The Benefactor. Did he create a whole Assassin app?"

"There's no names," Jordan continues, well practiced in ignoring Stiles' tangents. "But the ID numbers are a match. He's giving the orders."

"But you," Stiles says, whirling back on Derek. "Why did you followed me?"

Derek raises his eyebrows. "Because I knew you were looking for trouble."

"You used me as bait!"

Derek snorts. "Stiles, you used yourself as bait. I was here as back up. Which you needed. Badly."

"I could have handled it," Stiles mutters. 

There's shouting becoming steadily louder, David Whittemore being dragged toward the second cruiser, yelling, "It's because of monsters like you that this is one of the most dangerous places to live in the entire US!" Whittemore is in handcuffs.

"Just got a little bit safer, though," Stiles points out when the deputy's and Whittemore pass close. "Buh-bye!" he adds just before the deputy closes the door on the man.

"That seemed kinda," Stiles says, shrugs. "Just sort of …"

Derek rolls his eyes. "You're upset that we apprehended the Benefactor? Really?"

"What? No! Just … I don't know."

"It had to end sometime."

"No, I know that just …"

"I'll see you later, Derek," Jordan calls, smiling and shaking his head, like witnessing this whole exchange has been amusing. "Stiles, glad you're okay." He gives Stiles a brief hug, nods again to Derek and then climbs into the front of the cruiser where Whittemore is waiting.

"Wait, where's your car?" Stiles wonders and then realizes that Derek isn't in a cruiser because he's off duty. Stiles left the Station when Derek did, because his shift had ended and the Sheriff had ordered him home to get some sleep. Derek got in his stalker mobile and followed Stiles.

"Ugh," Stiles groans. "Now we have to go back to the station and give our statements. It's days like this that I wish I let my dad have donuts and muffins in the break room."

Derek shifts from one foot to the other, his hands in his pocket. "What's wrong with you?" Stiles wonders, because the werewolf looks weirdly shy.

"You shouldn't drive," Derek says.

"Why not?"

"You were just attacked."

"I've had worse," Stiles says with a shrug. "I mean, sure I was maybe totally airborne for a couple of seconds, but that was pretty much all the excitement I saw tonight."

"I can drive you."

Stiles perks up, hopping a step to catch up when Derek starts walking. "Ooh, are we carpooling to the station? Fine. That looks like a sweet ride, I bet I can endure the trip."

Derek walks him over to where the Camaro is parked and Stiles wonders if the man is going to do something ridiculous, like open his door for him, but instead Derek wraps a hand loosely around Stiles' elbow and turns him until his back is against the car and Derek is pressed across his front. It's all very promising, but then Derek just stands there like that, his head tipped forward a little, but not enough to put their mouths in range.

"Are you trying to start something, deputy?" Stiles prompts.

Derek snorts, looks like he's about to argue and then relents. He broaches the last bit of distance and brings their mouths together. It starts out warm and soft, but then Derek shifts, his leg pushing forward between Stiles' knees and more of his weight falling onto Stiles. Stiles groans, opens his mouth wider, takes more and the kiss ignites.

"Are we really doing this?" Stiles pants, his fingers curling tighter into the fabric of Derek's shirt. "I'm game if you are." 

Derek smiles, noses at Stiles' cheek and goes back to kissing him.


	6. Epilogue:

The Sheriff Department Halloween Bash is held each year in the large park across from the Beacon Hills Rec Centre or, if it's raining, inside the Rec Centre itself. The money raised goes to things like replacing the antiquated radios the Sheriff's Department uses, or fixing up the cruisers, all of which are worthy causes, in Stiles' opinion. He's been attending the Halloween Bash since he was a kid, back when his dad was just a deputy and his mom would dress him up in animal costumes and Stiles was young enough to think that was a brilliant idea. There a picture of her holding him when he was around two or three, and he's dressed as a giraffe with a long neck and everything. His mom has a shit-eating grin on her face, probably proud of herself for creating such epic blackmailing material on him for later. It's one of the legacies she left him; she was awesome like that.

This year Stiles has been placed in charge of terrorizing small children attempting to brave the hay maze. "I did not say 'terrorize', Stiles!" his dad had argued earlier.

"We don't have time to argue semantics right now, pops, we're gonna be late!"

So when Scott and Kira track him down dressed as bacon and eggs respectively, they find him lurking just to the left of the maze, because that way he can come up on a group from behind, where they least suspect it. 

"Oh dude!" Scott cheers. "You're costume's amazing!"

"Check out my shuffle! I've got it down!" Stiles holds his arms out in front of him, puts a vacant look on his face and twists his right foot around awkwardly, jerkily stumbling forward. "Braa-ains," he says quietly, almost under his breath. He's a B-movie zombie, complete with an exposed bone in his arm that Derek painted on the gore for, and torn clothes and torn flesh.

"Gross!" Kira says, gleefully. "You look like an extra from of 'The Walking Dead'. It's super creepy."

"I am the walking dead," Stiles preens. "Kids are freaking. It's awesome. Have you guys seen Derek yet?"

"No," Scott says, rolling awkwardly onto the balls of his feet to scan the area behind Stiles. "Why, where is he?"

Stiles jerks his chin and Scott and Kira turn around as one just in time for Derek, who had been sneaking up on them, to growl menacingly, his furry clawed arms raised. "Seriously?" Scott asks, giggling.

"Dude, how did you not hear him," Stiles asks his friend. "You're like, the worst werewolf of all time!"

"If I'm the worst, then what the hell is that?" Scott jokes, pointing his thumb in the direction where Derek is standing.

"I'm the Wolfman," Derek answers blandly. Kira is doing a bad job of masking her laughter with her hand, and Scott can't stop smirking. Derek narrows his eyes, glaring at the pair of them, "It was Stiles' idea."

"No you look … very threatening, Derek," Kira assures him.

"He's my fluffy beau." Stiles hooks an arm around the back of Derek's neck, grinning. "Oh dude, you're getting kinda damp though."

Derek turns the glare onto him. "This costume is boiling me alive," he grumbles. "I've been chasing kids for two hours."

"Cheer up, I hear it's for a good cause!" Stiles plants a kiss on Derek's cheek and pats the chest of the furry costume. "

"You tried to get him to go as Chewbacca and he resisted, didn't you?" Scott whispers, knowingly.

"Next year," Stiles vows. "Han and Chewy. Tell me that isn't perfect."

"You're crazy," Kira says, laughter in her voice, and Stiles would point out that he's not the one who dressed up as the most adorable sunny-side-up to ever exist, with pigtails and everything, but he gets caught-up with happy cackling laughter instead. 

There's a group of kids laughing and making their way toward the hay entrance. "Hey, that's my cue," Stiles says, then jostles Derek a little. "Go around the back way. Get them when they try to run." He pokes the other man to get him moving, then swats Derek's furry butt just because.

"Rrrrr," Derek, growls, which only makes Stiles laugh harder, especially when the other man turns away from the maze and chases Stiles instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Special thanks to misakikinomoto, for all her work moderating sterek_big_bang, but also for being the voice of reason at the start, when I was juggling fifty different story ideas (and trying to find a way to write every single one), and also for her support all the way through and her work betaing this beast! Also to comatosebadger for creating the art for this! Thanks so much, and sorry I made you read this story when it was so rough!
> 
> If you enjoyed this story, please consider reblogging [here.](http://dragons-are-a-girls-bestfriend.tumblr.com/post/138282130509/he-only-likes-you-for-your-brains-complete)


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